THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


1^. 


Two  shining  muzzles  were  leveled  at  his  breast 


STEELE  OF  THE 
ROYAL  MOUNTED 

(PHILIP  STEELE) 


BY 

JAMES  OLIVER  CURWOOD 


McKINLAY,  STONE  &  MACKENZIE 

NEW   YORK 


Copyright.   1911 
COSMOPOLITAN   BOOK   CotrotATiox 


TO  MY  WIFE 


657355 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  THE  HYACINTH  LETTER             ...  1 

II  A  FACE  OUT  OF  THE  NIGHT       ...  14 

III  A  SKULL  AND  A  FLIRTATION      ...  36 

IV  THE  SILKEN  SCARF 54 

V    BEAUTY-PROOF              68 

VI  PHILIP  FOLLOWS  A  PRETTY  FACE      .        .  82 

VII  THE  TRAGEDY  IN  THE  CABIN    .       .       .  100 

VIII  ANOTHER  LETTER  FOR  PHILIP    .       .       .  125 

IX  PHILIP  TAKES  UP  THE  TRAIL    ...  136 

X  ISOBEL'S    DISAPPEARANCE            .       .       .  150 

XI  THE  LAW  VERSUS  THE  MAN    .       .       .  174 

XII  THE  FIGHT — AND  A  STRANGE  VISITOR      .  191 

XIII  THE  GREAT  LOVE  EXPERIMENT  .       .       .  209 

XIV  WHAT  CAME  OF  THE   GREAT  LOVE   EX 

PERIMENT       229 

XV  PHILIP'S    LAST    ASSIGNMENT    .       .       .  255 

XVI  A   LOCK  OF   GOLDEN   HAIR        .        .        .  265 

XVII  THE  GIRL  IN  THE  WRECK       .       .       .  276 

XVIII  THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  CANYON    ,                ,  286 


PHILIP  STEELE 


PHILIP  STEELE 

CHAPTER    I 

THE    HYACINTH    LETTER 

PHILIP  STEELE'S  pencil  drove  steadily 
over  the  paper,  as  if  the  mere  writing  of 
a  letter  he  might  never  mail  in  some  way  less 
ened  the  loneliness. 

The  wind  is  blowing  a  furious  gale  outside. 
From  off  the  lake  come  volleys  of  sleet,  like 
shot  from  guns,  and  all  the  wild  demons  of 
this  black  night  in  the  wilderness  seem  bent  on 
tearing  apart  the  huge  end-locked  logs  that 
form  my  cabin  home.  In  truth,  it  is  a  terrible 
night  to  be  afar  from  human  companionship, 
with  naught  but  this  roaring  desolation  about 
and  the  air  above  filled  with  screeching  terrors. 
Even  through  thick  log  walls  I  can  hear  the 
surf  roaring  among  the  rocks  and  beating  the 
I 


PHILIP    STEELE 

white  driftwood  like  a  thousand  battering- 
rams,  almost  at  my  door.  It  is  a  night  to  make 
one  shiver,  and  in  the  lulls  of  the  storm  the  tall 
pines  above  me  whistle  and  waif  mournfully  as 
they  straighten  their  twisted  heads  after  the 
blasts. 

To-morrow  this  will  be  a  desolation  of  snow. 
There  will  be  snow  from  here  to  Hudson's 
Bay,  from  the  Bay  to  the  Arctic,  and  where 
now  there  is  all  this  fury  and  strife  of  wind 
and  sleet  there  will  be  unending  quiet — the 
stillness  which  breeds  our  tongueless  people  of 
the  North.  But  this  is  small  comfort  for  to 
night.  Yesterday  I  caught  a  little  mouse  in  my 
flour  and  killed  him.  I  am  sorry  now,  for 
surely  all  this  trouble  and  thunder  in  the  night 
would  have  driven  him  out  from  his  home  in 
the  wall  to  keep  me  company. 

It  would  not  be  so  bad  if  it  were  not  for  th«- 
skull.  Three  times  in  the  last  half-hour  I  hare 
started  to  take  it  down  from  its  shelf  over  my 
crude  stone  fireplace,  where  pine  logs  are  blaz- 

2 


THE   HYACINTH   LETTER 

ing.  But  each  time  I  have  fallen  back,  shiver 
ing,  into  the  bed-like  chair  I  have  made  for 
myself  out  of  saplings  and  caribou  skin.  It  is 
a  human  skull.  Only  a  short  time  ago  it  was  a 
living  man,  with  a  voice,  and  eyes,  and  brain — 
and  that  is  what  makes  me  uncomfortable.  If 
it  were  an  old  skull,  it  would  be  different.  But 
it  is  a  new  skull.  Almost  I  fancy  at  times  that 
there  is  life  lurking  in  the  eyeless  sockets, 
where  the  red  firelight  from  the  pitch-weighted 
logs  plays  in  grewsome  flashes;  and  I  fancy, 
too,  that  in  the  brainless  cavities  of  the  skull 
there  must  still  be  some  of  the  old  passion, 
stirred  into  spirit  life  by  the  very  madness  of 
this  night.  A  hundred  times  I  have  been  sorry 
that  I  kept  the  thing,  but  never  more  so  than 
now. 

How  the  wind  howls  and  the  pines  screech 
abov~  me!  A  pailful  of  snow,  plunging  down 
my  chimney,  sends  the  chills  up  my  spine  as  if 
it  were  the  very  devil  himself,  and  the  steam 
of  it  surges  out  and  upward  and  hides  the 
3 


PHILIP    STEELE 

skull.     It  is  absurd  to  go  to  bed,  to  make  an 
effort  to  sleep,  for  I  know  what  my  dreams 
would  be.    To-night  they  would  be  rilled  with 
this  skull — and  with  visions  of  a  face,  a  worn 
an's  face — 

Thus  far  had  Steele  written,  when  with  a 
nervous  laugh  he  sprang  from  his  chair,  and 
with  something  that  sounded  very  near  to  an 
oath,  in  the  wild  tumult  of  the  storm,  crum 
pled  the  paper  in  his  hand  and  flung  it  among 
the  blazing  logs  he  had  described  but  a  few 
moments  before. 

"Confound  it,  this  will  never  do!"  he  ex 
claimed,  falling  into  his  own  peculiar  habit  of 
communing  with  himself.  "I  say  it  won't  do, 
Phil  Steele;  deuce  take  it  if  it  will!  You're 
getting  nervous,  sentimental,  almost  homesick. 
Ugh,  what  a  beast  of  a  night !" 

He  turned  to  the  rude  stone  fireplace  again 
as  another  blast  of  snow  plunged  down  the 
chimney. 

4 


THE   HYACINTH   LETTER 

"Wish  I'd  built  a  fire  in  the  stove  instead  of 
there,"  he  went  on,  filling  his  pipe.  "Thought 
it  would  be  a  little  more  cheerful,  you  know. 
Lord  preserve  us,  listen  to  that !" 

He  began  walking  up  and  down  the  hewn 
log  floor  of  the  cabin,  his  hands  deep  in  his 
pockets,  puffing  out  voluminous  clouds  of 
smoke.  It  was  not  often  that  Philip  Steele's 
face  was  unpleasant  to  look  upon,  but  to-night 
it  wore  anything  but  its  natural  good  humor. 
It  was  a  strong,  thin  face,  set  off  by  a  square 
jaw,  and  with  clear,  steel-gray  eyes  in  which 
just  now  there  shone  a  strange  glitter,  as  they 
rested  for  a  moment  upon  the  white  skull  over 
the  fire.  From  his  scrutiny  of  the  skull  Steele 
turned  to  a  rough  board  table,  lighted  by  a 
twisted  bit  of  cotton  cloth,  three-quarters  sub 
merged  in  a  shallow  tin  of  caribou  grease.  In 
the  dim  light  of  this  improvised  lamp  there 
were  two  letters,  opened  and  soiled,  which  an 
Indian  had  brought  up  to  him  from  Nelson 
House  the  day  before.  One  of  them  was  short 
5 


PHILIP    STEELE 

and  to  the  point.  It  was  an  official  note  from 
headquarters  ordering  him  to  join  a  certain 
Buck  Nome  at  Lac  Bain,  a  hundred  miles  far 
ther  north. 

It  was  the  second  letter  which  Steele  took  in 
his  hands  for  the  twentieth  time  since  it  had 
come  to  him  here,  three  hundred  miles  into  the 
wilderness.  There  were  half-a-dozen  pages  of 
it,  written  in  a  woman's  hand,  and  from  it  there 
rose  to  his  nostrils  the  faint,  sweet  perfume  of 
hyacinth.  It  was  this  odor  that  troubled  him 
— that  had  troubled  him  since  yesterday,  and 
that  made  him  restless  and  almost  homesick  to 
night.  It  took  him  back  to  things — to  the  days 
of  not  so  very  long  ago  when  he  had  been  a 
part  of  the  life  from  which  the  letter  came,  and 
when  the  world  had  seemed  to  hold  for  him  all 
that  one  could  wish.  In  a  retrospective  flash 
there  passed  before  him  a  vision  of  those  days 
when  he,  Mr.  Philip  Steele,  son  of  a  multi 
millionaire  banker,  was  one  of  the  favored  few 
in  the  social  life  of  a  great  city;  when  fashion* 
6 


THE    HYACINTH   LETTER 

able  clubs  opened  their  doors  to  him,  and  beau 
tiful  women  smiled  upon  him,  and  when, 
among  others,  this  girl  of  the  hyacinth  letter 
held  out  to  him  the  tempting  lure  of  her  heart. 
Her  heart  ?  Or  was  it  the  tempting  of  his  own 
wealth?  Steele  laughed,  and  his  strong  white 
teeth  gleamed  in  a  half -contemptuous  smile  as 
he  turned  again  toward  the  fi'-e. 

He  sat  down,  with  the  letter  still  in  his 
hands,  and  thought  of  some  of  those  others 
whom  he  had  known.  What  had  become  of 
Jack  Moody,  he  wondered — the  good  old  Jack 
of  his  college  days,  who  had  loved  this  girl  of 
the  hyacinth  with  the  whole  of  his  big,  honest 
heart,  but  who  hadn't  been  given  half  a  show 
because  of  his  poverty?  And  where  was 
Whittemore,  the  young  broker  whose  hopes 
had  fallen  with  his  own  financial  ruin;  and 
Fordney,  who  would  have  cut  off  ten  years  of 
his  life  for  her — and  half-a-dozen  others  he 
might  name? 

Her  heart!  Steele  laughed  softly  as  he 
7 


PHILIP    STEELE 

lifted  the  letter  so  that  the  sweet  perfume  of  it 
came  to  him  more  strongly.  How  she  had 
tempted  him  for  a  timel  Almost — that  night 
of  the  Hawkins'  ball — he  had  surrendered  to 
her.  He  half-closed  his  eyes,  and  as  the  logs 
crackled  in  the  fireplace  and  the  wind  roared 
outside,  he  saw  her  again  as  he  had  seen  her 
that  night — gloriously  beautiful;  memory  of 
the  witchery  of  her  voice,  her  hair,  her  eyes 
firing  his  blood  like  strong  wine.  And  this 
beauty  might  have  been  for  him,  was  still  his, 
if  he  chose.  A  word  from  out  of  the  wilder 
ness,  a  few  lines  that  he  might  write  to-night — 
With  a  sudden  jerk  Steele  sat  bolt  upright. 
One  after  another  he  crumpled  the  sheets  of 
paper  in  his  hand  and  tossed  all  but  the  signa 
ture  page  into  the  fire.  The  last  sheet  he  kept, 
studied  it  for  a  little — as  if  her  name  were  the 
answer  to  a  problem — then  laid  it  aside.  For 
a  few  moments  there  remained  still  the  haunt* 
ing  sweetness  of  the  hyacinth.  When  it  was 
gone,  he  gave  a  last  searching  sniff,  rose  to  his 
8 


THE   HYACINTH   LETTER 

feet  with  a  laugh  in  which  there  was  some  re 
turn  of  his  old  spirit,  hid  that  final  page  of  her 
letter  in  his  traveling  kit  and  proceeded  to  re 
fill  his  pipe. 

More  than  once  Philip  Steele  had  told  him 
self  thai  he  was  born  a  century  or  two  after  his 
time.  He  had  admitted  this  much  to  a  few  of 
his  friends,  and  the>  had  laughed  at  him.  One 
evening  he  had  opened  his  heart  a  little  to  the 
girl  of  the  hyacinth  letter,  and  after  thai  she 
had  called  him  eccentric.  Within  himself  he 
knew  that  he  was  unlike  other  men,  that  the 
blood  in  him  was  calling  back  to  almost  for* 
gotten  generations,  when  strong  hearts  and 
steady  hands  counted  for  manhood  rather  than 
stocks- and  bonds,  and  when  romance  and  ad- 
venture  were  not  quite  dead.  At  college  he 
took  civil  engineering,  because  it  seemed  to  him 
to  breathe  the  spirit  of  outdoors;  and  when  he 
had  finished  he  incurred  the  wrath  of  those  at 
home  by  burying  himself  for  a  whole  year  with 
a  surveying  expedition  in  Central  America. 

9 


PHILIP    STEELE 

It  was  this  expedition  that  put  the  finishing 
touch  to  Philip  Steele.  He  came  back  a  big 
hearted,  clear  minded  young  fellow,  as  bronzed 
as  an  Aztec — a  hater  of  cities  and  the  hot 
house  varieties  of  pleasure  to  which  he  had 
been  born,  and  as  far  removed  from  anticipa 
tion  of  his  father's  millions  as  though  they  had 
never  been.  He  possessed  a  fortune  in  his  own 
right,  but  as  yet  he  had  found  no  use  for  the 
income  that  was  piling  up.  A  second  expedi' 
tion,  this  time  to  Brazil,  and  then  he  came  back 
— to  meet  the  girl  of  the  hyacinth  letter.  And 
after  that,  after  he  had  broken  from  the  bond 
age  which  held  Moody,  and  Fordney,  and 
Whittemore,  he  went  back  to  his  many  adven 
tures. 

It  was  the  North  that  held  him.  In  the  un 
ending  desolations  of  snow  and  forest  and 
plain,  between  Hudson's  Bay  and  the  wild 
Country  of  the  Athabasca,  he  found  the  few 
people  and  the  mystery  and  romance  which 
carried  him  back,  and  linked  him  to  the  dust- 
10 


THE   HYACINTH   LETTER 

covered  generations  he  had  lost.  One  day  a 
slender,  athletically  built  young  man  enlisted  at 
Regina  for  service  in  the  Northwest  Mounted 
Police.  Within  six  months  he  had  made  sev 
eral  records  for  himself,  and  succeeded  in  hav 
ing  himself  detailed  to  service  in  the  extreme 
North,  where  man-hunting  became  the  thrilling 
game  of  One  against  One  in  an  empty  and 
voiceless  world.  And  no  one,  not  even  the  girl 
ef  the  hyacinth  letter,  would  have  dreamed 
that  the  man  who  was  officially  listed  as  "Pri 
vate  Phil  Steele,  of  the  N.  W.  M.  P.,"  was 
Philip  Steele,  millionaire  and  gentleman  ad 
venturer. 

None  appreciated  the  humor  of  this  fact 
more  than  Steele  himself,  and  he  fell  again  into 
his  wholesome  laugh  as  he  placed  a  fresh  pine 
log  on  the  fire,  wondering  what  his  aristocratic 
friends — and  especially  the  girl  of  the  hyacinth 
letter — would  say  if  they  could  see  him  and  hi: 
environment  just  at  the  present  moment.  In  a 
slow,  chuckling  survey  he  took  in  the  heavy 
II 


PHILIP    STEELE 

German  socks  which  he  had  hung  to  dry  close 
to  the  fire;  his  worn  shoe-packs,  shining  in  a 
thick  coat  of  caribou  grease,  and  his  single  suit 
of  steaming  underwear  that  he  had  washed 
after  supper,  and  which  hung  suspended  from 
the  ceiling,  looking  for  all  the  world,  in  the 
half  dusk  of  the  cabin,  like  a  very  thin  and 
headless  man.  In  this  gloom,  indeed,  but  one 
thing  shone  out  white  and  distinct — the  skull 
on  the  little  shelf  above  the  fire.  As  his  eyes 
rested  on  it,  Steele's  lips  tightened  and  his  face 
grew  dark.  With  a  sudden  movement  he 
reached  up  and  took  it  in  his  hands,  holding  it 
for  a  moment  so  that  the  light  from  the  fire 
flashed  full  upon  it  In  the  left  side,  on  a  line 
with  the  eyeless  socket  and  above  the  ear,  was 
a  hole  as  large  as  a  small  egg. 

"So  I'm  ordered  up  to  join  Nome,  the  man 
who  did  this,  eh?"  he  muttered,  fingering  the 
'ragged  edge.  "I  could  kill  him  for  what  hap 
pened  down  there  at  Nelson  House,  M'sieur 
Janette.  Some  day — I  may." 

12 


THE   HYACINTH   LETTER 

He  balanced  the  skull  on  his  finger  tips,  level 
with  his  chin. 

"Nice  sort  of  a  chap  for  a  Hamlet,  I  am," 
he  went  on,  whimsically.  "I  believe  I'll  chuck 
you  into  the  fire,  M'sieur  Janette.  You're  get 
ting  on  my  nerves." 

He  stopped  suddenly  and  lowered  the  skull 
to  the  table. 

"No,  I  won't  bum  you,"  he  continued.  "I've 
brought  you  this  far  and  I'll  pack  yon  up  to  Lac 
Bain  with  me.  Some  morning  I'll  give  you  to 
Bucky  Nome  for  breakfast.  And  then,  M'sieur 
— then  we  shall  see  what  we  shall  see." 

Later  that  night  he  wrote  a  few  words  on  a 
slip  of  paper  and  tacked  the  paper  to  the  inside 
of  his  door.  To  any  who  might  follow  in  his 
footsteps  it  conveyed  this  information  and  ad 
vice: 

NOTICE! 

This  cabin  and  what's  in  it  are  quasheed  by 
me.  Fill  your  gizzard  but  not  your  pockets. 
STEELE,  Northwest  Mounted. 

U 


CHAPTER  II 

A  FACE  OUT  OF  THE  NIGHT 

STEELE  came  up  to  the  Hudson's  Bay 
Company's  post  at  Lac  Bain  on  the  sev 
enth  day  after  the  big  storm,  and  Breed,  the 
factor,  confided  two  important  bits  of  informa 
tion  to  him  while  he  was  thawing  out  before 
the  big  box-stove  in  the  company's  deserted 
and  supply-stripped  store.  The  first  was  that 
a  certain  Colonel  Becker  and  his  wife  had  left 
Fort  Churchill,  on  Hudson's  Bay,  to  make  a 
visit  at  Lac  Bain ;  the  second,  that  Buck  Nome 
had  gone  westward  a  week  before  and  had  not 
returned.  Breed  was  worried,  not  over  Nome's 
prolonged  absence,  but  over  the  anticipated  ar 
rival  of  the  other  two.  According  to  the  letter 
which  had  come  to  him  from  the  Churchill 
factor,  Colonel  Becker  and  his  wife  had  coma 
14 


A   FACE   OUT   OF   THE   NIGHT 

over  on  the  last  supply  ship  from  London,  and 
the  colonel  was  a  high  official  in  the  company's 
service.  Also,  he  was  an  old  gentleman.  Os 
tensibly  he  had  no  business  at  Lac  Bain,  but  was 
merely  on  a  vacation,  and  wished  to  see  a  bit 
of  real  life  in  the  wilderness. 

Breed's  grizzled  face  was  miserable. 

"Why  don't  they  send  'em  down  to  York 
Factory  or  Nelson  House?"  he  demanded  of 
Steele.  "They've  got  duck  feathers,  three 
women,  and  a  civilized  factor  at  the  Nelson, 
and  there  ain't  any  of  'em  here — not  even  a 
woman !" 

Steele  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  Breed  men 
tioned  the  three  women  at  Nelson. 

"There  are  only  two  women  there  now,"  he 
replied.  "Since  a  certain  Bucky  Nome  passed 
that  way,  one  of  them  has  gone  into  the  South." 

"Well,  two,  then,"  said  Breed,  who  had  not 
caught  the  flash  of  fire  in  the  other's  eyes.  "But 
I  tell  you  there  ain't  a  one  here,  Steele,  not  even 
in  Indian — and  that  dirty  Cree,  Jack,  is  doing 

15 


PHILIP    STEELE 

the  cooking.  Blessed  Saints,  I  caught  him 
mixing  biscuit  dough  in  the  wash  basin  the 
other  day,  and  I've  been  eating  those  biscuits 
ever  since  our  people  went  out  to  their  trap- 
lines!  There's  you,  and  Nome,  two  Crees,  a 
'half  and  myself — and  that's  every  soul  there'll 
be  at  Lac  Bain  until  the  mid-winter  run  of  fur. 
Now,  what  in  Heaven's  name  is  the  poor  old 
Mrs.  Colonel  going  to  do  ?" 

"Got  a  bed  for  her?" 

"A  bunk — hard  as  nails !" 

"Good  grub?" 

"Rotten !"  groaned  the  factor.  "Every  trap 
per's  son  of  them  took  out  big  supplies  this  fall 
and  we're  stripped.  Beans,  flour,  sugar'n' 
prunes — and  caribou  until  I  feel  like  turning 
inside  out  every  time  I  smell  it.  I'd  give  a 
month's  commission  fora  pound  of  pork.  Look 
here !  If  this  letter  ain't  'quality'  you  can  cut 
me  into  jiggers.  Bet  the  Mrs.  Colonel  wrote  it 
for  her  hubby." 

From  an  inside  pocket  Breed  drew  forfoh  a 
16 


A   FACE   OUT   OF   THE   NIGHT 

square  white  envelope  with  a  broken  seal  of 
red  wax,  and  from  it  extracted  a  folded  sheet 
of  cream-tinted  paper.  Scarcely  had  Steele 
taken  the  note  in  his  hands  when  a  quick  thrill 
passed  through  him.  Before  he  had  read  the 
first  line  he  was  conscious  again  of  that  haunt 
ing  sweetness  in  the  air  he  breathed — the  per 
fume  of  hyacinth.  There  was  not  only  this 
perfume,  but  the  same  paper,  the  same  deli 
cately  pretty  writing  of  the  letter  he  had  burned 
more  than  a  week  before.  He  made  no  effort 
to  suppress  the  exclamation  of  astonishment 
that  broke  from  his  lips.  Breed  was  staring  at 
him  when  he  lifted  his  eyes. 

"This  is  a  mighty  strange  coincidence, 
Breed,"  he  said,  regaining  his  composure.  "I 
could  almost  swear  that  I  know  this  writing, 
and  yet  of  course  such  a  thing  is  impossible. 
Still,  it's  mighty  queer.  Will  you  let  me  keep 
the  letter  until  to-night  ?  I'd  like  to  take  it  over 
to  the  cabin  and  compare  it — " 

"Needn't  return  it  at  all,"  interrupted  the 
17 


PHILIP    STEELE 

factor.  "Hope  you  find  something  interesting 
to  tell  me  at  supper — five  sharp.  It  will  be  a 
blessing  if  you  know  'em." 

Ten  minutes  later  Steele  was  in  the  little- 
cabin  which  he  and  Nome  occupied  while  at 
Lac  Bain.  Jack,  the  Cree,  had  built  a  rousing 
fire  in  the  long  sheet-iron  stove,  and  as  Steele 
opened  its  furnace-like  door,  a  flood  of  light 
poured  out  into  the  gathering  gloom  of  early 
evening.  Drawing  a  chair  full  into  the  light, 
he  again  opened  the  letter.  Line  for  line  and 
word  for  word  he  scrutinized  the  writing,  and 
with  each  breath  that  he  drew  he  found  himself 
more  deeply  thrilled  by  a  curious  mental  excite 
ment  which  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  ex 
plain.  According  to  the  letter,  Colonel  and  Mrs. 
Becker  had  arrived  at  Churchill  aboard  the 
London  ship  a  little  over  a  month  previously. 
He  remembered  that  the  date  on  the  letter  from 
the  girl  was  six  weeks  old.  At  the  time  it  was 
written,  Colonel  Becker  and  his  wife  were 
either  in  London  or  Liverpool,  or  crossing  the 
18 


A   FACE   OUT   OF   THE   NIGHT 

Atlantic.  No  matter  how  similar  the  two  let 
ters  appeared  to  him,  he  realized  that,  under  the 
circumstances,  the  same  person  could  not  have 
written  them  both.  For  many  minutes  he  sat 
oack  in  his  chair,  with  his  eyes  half-closed,  ab 
sorbing  the  comforting  heat  of  the  fire.  Again 
the  old  vision  returned  to  him.  In  a  subcon 
scious  sort  of  way  he  found  himself  fighting 
against  it,  as  he  had  struggled  a  score  of  times 
to  throw  off  its  presence,  since  the  girl's  letter 
had  come  to  him.  And  this  time,  as  before,  his 
effort  was  futile.  He  saw  her  again — and  al 
ways  as  on  that  night  of  the  Hawkins'  ball, 
<yes  and  lips  smiling  at  him,  the  light  shining 
gloriously  in  the  deep  red  gold  of  her  hair. 

With  an  effort  Steele  aroused  himself  and 
looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  a  quarter  of  five. 
He  stooped  to  close  the  stove  door,  and  stopped 
suddenly,  his  hand  reaching  out,  head  and 
shoulders  hunched  over.  Across  his  knee,  shin 
ing  in  the  firelight,  like  a  thread  of  spun  gold, 
lay  a  single  filament  of  a  woman's  hair. 


PHILIP    STEELE 

He  rose  slowly,  holding  the  hair  between  him 
and  the  light.  His  fingers  trembled,  his  breath 
came  quickly.  The  hair  had  fallen  upon  his 
knee  from  the  letter — or  the  envelope,  and  it 
was  wonderfully  like  her  hair ! 

From  the  direction  of  the  factor's  quarters 
came  the  deep  bellowing  of  Breed's  moose- 
horn,  calling  him  to  supper.  Before  he  re 
sponded  to  it,  Steele  wound  the  silken  thread  of 
gold  about  his  finger,  then  placed  it  carefully 
among  the  papers  and  cards  which  he  carried  in 
his  leather  wallet.  His  face  was  flushed  when 
he  joined  the  factor.  Not  since  the  night  at 
the  Hawkins'  ball,  when  he  had  felt  the  touch 
of  a  beautiful  woman's  hands,  the  warmth  of 
her  breath,  the  soft  sweep  of  her  hair  against 
his  lips  as  he  had  leaned  over  her  in  his  half- 
surrender,  had  thought  of  woman  stirred  him 
as  he  felt  himself  stirred  now.  He  was  glad 
that  Breed  was  too  much  absorbed  in  his  own 
troubles  to  observe  any  possible  change  in  him 
self  or  to  ask  questions  about  the  letter. 

20 


A   FACE   OUT   OF   THE   NIGHT 

"I  tell  you,  it  may  mean  the  short  birch  for 
me,  Steele,"  said  the  factor  gloomily.  "Lac 
Bain  is  just  now  the  emptiest,  most  fallen-to- 
pieces,  unbusiness-like  post  between  the  Atha 
basca  and  the  Bay.  We've  had  two  bad  seasons 
running,  and  everything  has  gone  wrong.  Colo 
nel  Becker  is  a  big  one  with  the  company.  Ain't 
no  doubt  about  that,  and  ten  to  one  he'll  think 
it's  a  new  man  that's  wanted  here." 

"Nonsense!"  exclaimed  Steele.  A  sudden 
flash  shot  into  his  face  as  he  looked  hard  at 
Breed.  "See  here,  how  would  you  like  to  have 
me  go  out  to  meet  them?"  he  asked.  "Sort  of 
a  welcoming  committee  of  one,  you  know.  Be 
fore  they  got  here  I  could  casually  give  'em  to 
understand  what  Lac  Bain  has  been  up  against 
during  the  last  two  seasons." 

Breed's  face  brightened  in  an  instant. 

"That  might  save  us,  Steele.  Will  you  do 
it?" 

"With  pleasure." 

Philip    was    conscious    of    an    increasing 

21 


PHILIP    STEELE 

warmth  in  his  face  as  he  bent  over  his  plate. 
"You're  sure — they're  elderly  people?"  he 
asked. 

"That  is  what  MacVeigh  wrote  me  from 
Churchill;  at  least  he  said  the  colonel  was  an 
old  man." 

"And  his  wife?" 

"Has  got  her  nerve,"  growled  Breed  irrev 
erently.  "It  wouldn't  be  so  bad  if  it  was  only 
the  colonel.  But  an  old  woman — ugh !  What 
he  doesn't  think  of  she'll  remind  him  of,  you 
can  depend  on  that." 

Steele  thought  of  his  mother,  who  looked  at 
things  through  a  magnifying  lorgnette,  and 
laughed  a  little  cheerlessly. 

"I'll  go  out  and  meet  them,  anyway,"  he 
comforted.  "Have  Jack  fix  me  up  for  the  hike 
in  the  morning,  Breed.  I'll  start  after  break 
fast." 

He  was  glad  when  supper  was  over  and  he 
was  back  in  his  own  cabin  smoking  his  pipe.  It 
was  almost  with  a  feeling  of  shame  that  he  took 

22 


the  golden  hair  from  his  wallet  and  held  it  once 
more  so  that  it  shone  before  his  eyes  in  the 
firelight. 

"You're  crazy,  Phil  Steele,"  he  assured  him 
self.  "You're  an  unalloyed  idiot.  What  the 
deuce  has  Colonel  Becker's  wife  got  to  do  with 
you — even  if  she  has  golden  hair  and  uses 
cream-tinted  paper  soaked  in  hyacinth?  Con 
found  it — there!"  and  he  released  the  shining 
hair  from  his  fingers  so  that  the  air  currents 
sent  it  floating  back  into  the  deeper  gloom  of 
the  cabin. 

It  was  midnight  before  he  went  to  bed.  He 
was  up  with  the  first  cold  gray  of  dawn.  All 
that  day  he  strode  steadily  eastward  on  snow- 
shoes,  over  the  company's  trail  to  the  bay.  Two 
hours  before  dusk  he  put  up  his  light  tent, 
gathered  balsam  for  a  bed,  and  built  a  fire  of 
dry  spruce  against  the  face  of  a  huge  rock  in 
front  of  his  shelter.  It  was  still  light  when  he 
wrapped  himself  in  his  blanket  and  lay  down 
on  the  balsam,  with  his  feet  stretched  out  to  the 
23 


PHILIP    STEELE 

reflected  heat  of  the  big  rock.  It  seemed  to 
Steele  that  there  was  an  unnatural  stillness  in 
the  air,  as  the  night  thickened  beyond  the  rim 
of  firelight,  and,  as  the  gloom  grew  still  deeper, 
blotting  out  his  vision  in  inky  blackness,  there 
crept  over  him  slowly  a  feeling  of  loneliness. 
It  was  a  new  sensation  to  Steele,  and  he  shiv 
ered  as  he  sat  up  and  faced  the  fire.  It  was  this 
same  quiet,  this  same  unending  mystery  of 
voiceless  desolation  that  had  won  him  to  the 
North.  Until  to-night  he  had  loved  it.  But 

now  there  was  something  oppressive  about  it, 

i 

something  that  made  him  strain  his  eyes  to  see 

beyond  the  rock  and  the  fire,  and  set  his  ears 
in  tense  listening  for  sounds  which  did  not 
exist.  He  knew  that  in  this  hour  he  was  long 
ing  for  companionship — not  that  of  Breed,  nor 
of  men  with  whom  he  hunted  men,  but  of  men 
and  women  whom  he  had  once  known  and  in 
whose  lives  he  had  played  a  part — ages  ago,  it 
seemed  to  him.  He  knew,  as  he  sat  with 
clenched  hands  and  staring  eyes,  that  chiefly 

24 


A   FACE   OUT   OF   THE   NIGHT 

he  was  longing  for  a  woman — a  woman  whosa 
eyes  and  lips  and  sunny  hair  haunted  him  after 
months  of  forgetfulness,  and  whose  face  smiled 
at  him  luringly,  now,  from  out  the  leaping 
flashes  of  fire — tempting  him,  calling  him  over 
a  thousand  miles  of  space.  And  if  he  yielded — 

The  thought  sent  his  nails  biting  into  the 
flesh  of  his  palms  and  he  sank  back  with  a  curse 
that  held  more  of  misery  than  blasphemy. 
Physical  exhaustion  rather  than  desire  for  sleep 
closed  his  eyes,  at  last,  in  half -slumber,  and 
after  that  the  face  seemed  nearer  and  more  real 
to  him,  until  it  was  close  at  his  side,  and  was 
speaking  to  him.  He  heard  again  the  soft,  rip 
pling  laugh,  girlishly  sweet,  that  had  fascinated 
him  at  Hawkins'  ball ;  he  heard  the  distant  hum 
and  chatter  of  other  voices,  and  then  one  loud 
and  close — that  of  Chesbro,  who  had  unwit 
tingly  interrupted  them,  and  saved  him,  just  in 
the  nick  of  time. 

Steele  moved  restlessly;  after  a  moment 
wriggled  to  his  elbow  and  looked  toward  the 
25 


PHILIP    STEELE 

fire.  He  seemed  to  hear  Chesbro's  voice 
again  as  he  awoke,  and  a  thrill  as  keen  as 
an  electric  shock  set  his  nerves  tingling  when 
he  heard  once  more  the  laughing  voice  of  his 
dream,  hushed  and  low.  In  amazement  he  sat 
bolt  upright  and  stared.  Was  he  still  dream 
ing?  The  fire  was  burning  brightly  and  he  was 
aware  that  he  had  scarce  fallen  into  sleep. 

A  movement — a  sound  of  feet  crunching 
softly  in  the  snow,  and  a  figure  came  between 
him  and  the  fire. 

It  was  a  woman. 

He  choked  back  the  cry  that  rose  to  his  lips 
and  sat  motionless  and  without  sound.  The 
figure  approached  a  step  nearer,  peering  into 
the  deep  gloom  of  the  tent.  He  caught  the  sil 
ver  glint  in  the  firelight  on  heavy  fur,  the  white 
ness  of  a  hand  touching  lightly  the  flap  ~>f  his 
tent,  and  then  for  an  instant  he  saw  a  face.  In 
that  instant  he  sat  as  rigid  as  if  he  had  stopped 
the  beat  of  his  own  life.  A  pair  of  dark  eyes 
laughing  in  at  him,  a  flash  of  laughing  teeth,,  a 
26 


A   FACE   OUT   OF   THE   NIGHT 

low  titter  that  was  scarce  more  than  a  rippling 
throat-note,  and  the  face  was  gone,  leaving  him 
still  staring  into  the  blank  space  where  it  had 
been. 

With  a  cough  to  give  warning  of  his  wake- 
fulness,  Steele  flung  off  his  blanket  and  drew 
himself  through  the  low  opening  of  the  tent. 
On  the  extreme  right  of  the  fire  stood  a  man 
and  woman,  warming  themselves  over  the 
coals.  They  straightened  from  their  leaning 
posture  as  he  appeared. 

"This  is  too  bad,  too  bad,  Mr.  Steele,"  ex 
claimed  the  man,  advancing  quickly.  "I  was 
afraid  we'd  make  a  blunder  and  awaken  you. 
We  were  about  to  camp  on  a  mountain  back 
there  when  we  saw  your  fire  and  drove  on  to 
it.  I'm  sorry — " 

"Wouldn't  have  had  you  miss  me  for  any 
thing,"  interrupted  Steele,  gripping  the  other's 
proffered  hand.  "You  see,  I'm  out  from 
Lac  Bain  to  meet  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Becker, 
and — "  He  hesitated  purposely,  his  white  teeth 
27 


PHILIP    STEELE 

gleaming  in  the  frank  smile  which  made  people 
like  him  immensely,  from  the  first. 

"You've  met  them,"  completed  the  laughing 
voice  from  across  the  fire.  "Please,  Mr.  Steele, 
will  you  forgive  me  for  looking  in  at  you  and 
waking  you  up?  But  your  feet  looked  so  ter 
ribly  funny,  and  I  assure  you  that  was  all  I 
could  see,  though  I  tried  awfully  hard.  Any 
way,  I  saw  your  name  printed  on  the  flap  of 
your  tent" 

Steele  felt  a  slow  fire  burning  in  his  cheeks 
as  he  encountered  the  beautiful  eyes  glowing  at 
him  from  behind  the  colonel.  The  woman  was 
smiling  at  him.  In  the  heat  of  the  fire  she  had 
pushed  back  her  fur  turban,  and  he  saw  that  her 
hair  was  the  same  shining  red  gold  that  had 
come  to  him  in  the  letter,  and  that  her  lips  and 
eyes  and  the  glorious  color  in  her  face  were  re 
markably  like  those  of  which  he  had  dreamed, 
and  of  which  waking  visions  had  come  with  the 
hyacinth  letter  to  fill  him  with  unrest  and  home 
sickness.  In  spite  of  himself  he  had  reasoned 
28 


A   FACE   OUT   OF   THE   NIGHT 

that  she  would  be  young  and  that  she  woultf 
have  golden  hair,  but  these  other  things,  the 
laughing  beauty  of  her  face,  the  luring  depth  o£ 
her  eyes. 

He  caught  himself  staring. 

"I — I  was  dreaming/'  he  almost  stammered. 
He  pulled  himself  together  quickly.  "I  was 
dreaming  of  a  face,  Mrs.  Becker.  It  seems 
strange  that  this  should  happen — away  up  here, 
in  this  way.  The  face  that  I  dreamed  of  is  a 
thousand  miles  from  here,  and  it  is  wonderfully 
like  yours." 

The  colonel  was  laughing  at  him  when  he 
turned.  He  was  a  little  man,  as  straight  as  a 
gun  rod,  pale  of  face  except  for  his  nose,  which 
was  nipped  red  by  the  cold,  and  with  a  pointed 
beard  as  white  as  the  snow  under  his  feet. 
That  part  of  his  countenance  which  exposed 
itself  above  the  top  of  his  great  fur  coat  and 
below  his  thick  beaver  cap  was  alive  with  good 
cheer,  notwithstanding  its  pallor. 

"Glad  you're  good  humored  about  it,  Steele," 
29 


PHILIP    STEELE 

he  cried  with  an  immediate  tone  of  comrade 
ship.  "We  wouldn't  have  ventured  into  youi 
camp  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Isobel.  She  was 
positively  insistent,  sir.  Wanted  to  see  \vlio 
was  here  and  what  it  looked  like.  Eh,  Isobel, 
my  dear,  are  you  satisfied?" 

"I  surely  didn't  expect  to  find  'It'  asleep  at 
this  time  of  the  day,"  said  Mrs.  Becker.  She 
laughed  straight  into  Philip's  face,  and  so 
roguishly  sweet  was  the  curve  of  her  red  lips 
and  the  light  in  her  eyes  that  his  heart  quick 
ened  its  beating,  and  the  flush  deepened  in  his 
cheeks. 

"It's  only  six,"  he  said,  looking  at  his  watch. 
"I  don't  usually  turn  in  this  early.  I  was 
tired  to-night — though  I  am  not,  now,"  he 
added  quickly.  "I  could  sit  up  until  morning 
— and  talk.  We  don't  often  meet  people  from 
outside,  you  know.  Where  are  the  others?" 

"Back  there,"  said  the  colonel,  waving  an 
arm  into  the  gloom.  "Isobel  made  'em  sit  down 
and  be  quiet,  dogs  and  all,  sir,  while  we  came 
30 


A   FACE   OUT   OF   THE   NIGHT 

on  alone.  There  are  Indians,  two  sledges,  and 
a  ton  of  duff." 

"Call  them,"  said  Steele.  "There's  room 
for  your  tent  beside  mine,  Colonel,  close 
against  the  face  of  this  rock.  It's  as  good  as 
a  furnace." 

The  colonel  moved  a  little  out  into  the  gloom 
and  shouted  to  those  behind.  Philip  turned  to 
find  Mrs.  Becker  looking  at  him  in  a  timid, 
questioning  sort  of  way,  the  laughter  gone 
from  her  eyes.  For  a  moment  she  seemed  to 
be  on  the  point  of  speaking  to  him,  then  picked 
up  a  short  stick  and  began  toying  with  the 
coals. 

"You  must  be  tired,  Mrs.  Becker,"  he  said. 
"Now  that  you  are  near  a  fire,  I  would  sug 
gest  that  you  throw  off  your  heavy  coat.  You 
will  be  more  comfortable,  and  I  will  bring  you 
a  blanket  to  sit  on." 

He  dived  into  his  tent  and  a  moment  later 
reappeared  with  a  blanket,  which  he  spread 
close  against  the  butt  of  a  big  spruce  within 
31 


PHILIP    STEELE 

half  a  dozen  feet  of  the  fire.  When  he  turned 
toward  her,  the  colonel's  wife  had  thrown  off 
her  coat  and  turbin  and  stood  before  him,  a 
slim  and  girlish  figure,  bewitchingly  pretty  as 
she  smiled  her  gratitude  and  nestled  down  into 
the  place  he  had  prepared  for  her.  For  a  mo 
ment  he  bent  over  her,  tucking  the  thick  fur 
about  her  feet  and  knees,  and  in  that  moment 
he  breathed  from  the  heavy  coils  of  her  shin 
ing  hair  the  flower-like  sweetness  which  had 
already  stirred  him  to  the  depths  of  his  soul. 

Colonel  Becker  was  smiling  down  upon 
them  when  he  straightened  up,  and  at  the  hu 
morous  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  as  he  gazed  from 
one  to  the  other,  Steele  felt  that  the  guilt  of 
his  own  thoughts  was  blazing  in  his  face.  He 
was  glad  that  the  Indians  came  up  with  the 
sledges  just  at  this  moment,  and  as  he  went 
back  to  help  them  with  th«  dogs  and  packs  he 
swore  softly  at  himself  for  the  heat  that  was 
in  his  blood  and  the  strange  madness  that  was 
firing  his  brain.  And  inwardly  he  cursed  him- 
33 


A   FACE   OUT   OF   THE   NIGHT 

self  still  more  when  he  returned  to  the  fire. 
From  out  the  deep  gloom  he  saw  the  colonel 
sitting  with  his  back  against  the  spruce  and 
Mrs.  Becker  nestling  against  him,  her  head 
resting  upon  his  shoulder,  talking  and  laughing 
up  into  his  face.  Even  as  he  hesitated  for  an 
instant,  scarce  daring  to  break  upon  the  scene, 
he  saw  her  pull  the  gray-bearded  face  down  to 
hers  and  kiss  it,  and  in  the  ineffable  content 
ment  and  happiness  shining  in  the  two  faces 
in  the  firelight  Philip  Steele  knew  that  he  was 
looking  upon  that  which  had  broken  for  ever 
the  haunting  image  of  another  woman  in  his 
heart.  In  its  place  would  remain  this  picture 
of  love — love  as  he  had  dreamed  of  it,  as  he 
had  hoped  for  it,  and  which  he  had  found  at 
last — but  not  for  himself — in  the  heart  of  a 
wilderness. 

He  saw  now  something  childishly  sweet  and 
pure  in  the  face  that  smiled  welcome  to  him  as 
he  came  noisily  through  the  snow-crust;  and 
something,  too,  in  the  colonel's  face,  which 


PHILIP    STEELE 

reached  out  and  gripped  at  his  very  heart 
strings,  and  filled  him  with  a  warm  glow  that 
was  new  and  strange  to  him,  and  which  was 
almost  the  happiness  of  these  two.  It  swept 
from  him  the  sense  of  loneliness  which  had 
oppressed  him  a  short  time  before,  and  when 
at  last,  after  they  had  talked  for  a  long  time 
beside  the  fire,  the  colonel's  wife  lifted  her 
pretty  head  drowsily  and  asked  if  she  might 
go  to  bed,  he  laughed  in  sheer  joy  at  the  pout 
ing  tenderness  with  which  she  rubbed  her  pink 
cheek  against  the  grizzled  face  above  her,  and 
at  the  gentle  light  in  the  colonel's  eyes  as  he 
half  carried  her  into  the  tent. 

For  a  long  time  after  he  had  rolled  himself 
in  his  own  blanket  Philip  lay  awake,  wonder 
ing  at  the  strangeness  of  this  thing  that  had 
happened  to  him.  It  was  Her  hair  that  he  had 
seen  shining  this  night  under  the  old  spruce, 
lustrous  and  soft,  and  coiled  in  its  simple  glory, 
as  he  had  seen  it  last  on  the  night  when  Ches- 
bro  had  broken  in  on  them  at  the  ball.  It  was 
34 


A   FACF   OUT   OF   THE   NIGHT 

very  easy  for  him  to  imagine  that  it  had  been 
Her  face,  with  soul  and  heart  and  love  added 
to  its  beauty.  More  than  ever  he  knew  what 
had  been  missing  for  him  now,  and  blessed 
Chesbro  for  his  blundering,  and  fell  asleep  to 
dream  of  the  new  face,  and  to  awaken  hours 
later  to  the  unpleasant  realization  that  his 
visions  were  but  dream-fabric  after  all,  and 
that  the  woman  was  the  wife  of  Colonel 
Becker. 


CHAPTER  III 

A  SKULL  AND  A  FLIRTATION 

IT  was  late  afternoon  when  they  came  into 
Lac  Bain,  and  as  soon  as  Philip  had  turned 
over  the  colonel  and  his  wife  to  Breed,  he  hur 
ried  to  his  own  cabin.  At  the  door  he  en 
countered  Buck  Nome.  The  two  men  had  not 
met  since  a  month  before  at  Nelson  House, 
and  there  was  but  little  cordiality  in  Steele's 
greeting  as  he  went  through  the  formality  of 
Shaking  hands  with  his  associate. 

"I'm  going  to  say  howdy  to  'em,"  explained 
Nome,  pausing  for  a  moment.  "Deuce  of  a 
good  joke  on  you,  Steele!  How  do  you  like 
the  job  of  bringing  in  an  old  colonel's  frozen 
wife,  or  a  frozen  colonel's  old  wife,  eh?" 

Every  fiber  in  Steele's  body  grew  tense  at 
the  banter  in  the  other's  voice.  He  whirled 
36 


A   SKULL   AND   A   FLIRTATION 

upon  Nome,  who  had  partly  turned  away. 
"You  remember — you  lied  down  there  at  Nel 
son  to  get  just  such  a  'job'  as  this,"  he  re 
minded.  "Have  you  forgotten  what  happened 
— after  that?" 

"Don't  get  miffed  about  it,  man,"  returned 
Nome  with  an  irritating  laugh.  "All's  fair  in 
love  and  war.  That  was  love  down  there, 
'pon  my  word  of  honor  it  was,  and  this  is 
about  as  near  the  other  thing  as  I  want  to 
come." 

There  was  something  in  his  laugh  that  drew 
Steele's  lips  in  a  tight  line  as  he  entered  the 
cabin.  It  was  not  the  first  time  that  he  had 
listened  to  Nome's  gloating  chuckle  at  the 
mention  of  certain  women.  It  was  this  more 
than  anything  else  that  made  him  hate  the  man. 
Physically,  Nome  was  a  magnificent  specimen, 
beyond  doubt  the  handsomest  man  in  the  serv 
ice  north  of  Winnipeg;  so  that  while  other  men 
despised  him  for  what  they  knew,  women  ad 
mired  and  loved  him — until,  now  and  then  too 
37 


PHILIP    STEELE 

late  for  their  own  salvation,  they  discovered 
that  his  moral  code  was  rotten  to  the  core. 
Such  a  thing  had  happened  at  Nelson  House, 
and  Philip  felt  himself  burning  with  a  desire 
to  choke  the  life  out  of  Nome  as  he  recalled 
the  tragedy  there.  And  what  would  happen — 
now?"  The  thought  came  to  him  like  a  dash 
of  cold  water,  and  yet,  after  a  moment,  his 
teeth  gleamed  in  a  smile  as  a  vision  rose  before 
him  of  the  love  and  purity  which  he  had  seen 
in  the  sweet  face  of  the  colonel's  wife.  He 
chuckled  softly  to  himself  as  he  dragged  out  a 
pack  from  under  his  bunk;  but  there  was  no 
humor  in  the  chuckle.  From  it  he  took  a 
bundle  wrapped  in  soft  birch-bark,  and  from 
this  produced  the  skull  that  he  had  brought  up 
with  him  from  the  South.  There  was  a  trem 
ble  of  excitement  in  his  low  laugh  as  he 
glanced  about  the  gloomy  interior  of  the  cabin. 
From  the  log  ceiling  hung  a  big  oil  lamp  with 
a  tin  reflector,  and  under  this  he  hung  the  skull. 
"You'll  make  a  pretty  ornament,  M'sieur 
38 


A    SKULL   AND    A   FLIRTATION 

Janette,"  he  exclaimed,  standing  off  to  con-, 
template  the  white  thing  leering  and  bobbing 
at  him  from  the  end  of  its  string.  "Mon  Dieu> 
I  tell  you  that  when  the  lamp  is  lighted  Bucky 
Nome  must  be  blind  if  he  doesn't  recognize 
you,  even  though  you're  dead,  M'sieur !" 

He  lighted  a  smaller  lamp,  shaved  himself, 
and  changed  his  clothes.  It  was  dark  when 
he  was  ready  for  supper,  and  Nome  had  not 
returned.  He  waited  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
longer,  then  put  on  his  cap  and  coat  and  lighted 
the  big  oil  lamp.  At  the  door  he  turned  to 
look  back.  The  cavernous  sockets  of  the  skull 
stared  at  him.  From  where  he  stood  he  could 
see  the  ragged  hole  above  the  ear. 

"It's  your  game  to-night,  M'sieur  Janette," 
he  cried  back  softly,  and  closed  the  door  behind 
him. 

They  were  gathered  before  a  huge  fire  of 

logs    in    the    factor's    big    living-room    when 

Philip  joined  the  others.     A  glance  told  him 

why   Nome  had   not   returned   to  the  cabin. 

39 


PHILIP    STEELE 

Breed  and  the  colonel  were  smoking  cigars 
over  a  ragged  ledger  of  stupendous  size,  whick 
the  factor  had  spread  out  upon  a  small  table, 
and  both  were  deeply  absorbed.  Mrs.  Becker 
was  facing  the  fire,  and  close  beside  her  sat 
Nome,  leaning  toward  her  and  talking  in  a 
voice  so  low  that  only  a  murmur  of  it  came  to 
Steele's  ears.  The  man's  face  was  flushed 
when  he  looked  up,  and  his  eyes  shone  with 
the  old  fire  which  made  Philip  hate  him. 

As  the  woman  turned  to  greet  him  Steele 
felt  a  suddenly  sickening  sensation  grip  at  his 
heart.  Her  cheeks,  too,  were  flushed,  and  the 
color  in  them  deepened  still  more  when  he 
bowed  to  her  and  joined  the  two  men  at  the 
table.  The  colonel  shook  hands  with  him,  and 
Philip  noticed  that  once  or  twice  after  that  his 
eyes  shifted  uneasily  in  the  direction  of  the 
two  before  the  fire,  and  that  whenever  the  low 
laughter  of  Mrs.  Becker  and  Nome  came  to 
them  he  paid  less  attention  to  the  columns  of 
figures  which  Breed  was  pointing  out  to  him. 
40 


A   SKULL   AND   A   FLIRTATION 

When  they  rose  to  go  into  supper,  Philip's 
blood  boiled  as  Nome  offered  his  arm  to  Mrs. 
Becker,  who  accepted  it  with  a  swift,  laughing 
glance  at  the  colonel.  There  was  no  response 
in  the  older  man's  pale  face,  and  Philip's 
fingers  dug  hard  into  the  palms  of  his  hands. 
At  the  table  Nome's  attentions  to  Mrs.  Becker 
were  even  more  marked.  Once,  under  pretext 
of  helping  her  to  a  dish,  he  whispered  words 
which  brought  a  deeper  flush  to  her  cheeks, 
and  when  she  looked  at  the  colonel  his  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  her  in.  stern  reproof.  It  was 
abominable!  Was  Nome  mad?  Was  the 
woman — 

Steele  did  not  finish  the  thought  in  his  own 
mind.  His  eyes  encountered  those  of  the 
colonel's  wife  across  the  table.  He  saw  a  sud 
den,  quick  catch  of  breath  in  her  throat;  even 
as  he  looked  the  flush  faded  from  her  face,  and 
she  rose  from  her  seat,  her  gaze  still  upon  him. 

"I— I  am  not  feeling  well,"  she  said.  "Will 
you  please  excuse  me?" 


PHILIP    STEELE 

In  an  instant  Nome  was  at  her  side,  but  she 
turned  quickly  from  him  to  the  colonel,  who 
had  risen  from  his  chair. 

"Please  take  me  to  my  room,"  she  begged. 
'Then — then  you  can  come  back." 

Once  more  her  face  turned  to  Steele.  There 
was  a  pallor  in  it  now  that  startled  him.  For 
a  few  moments  he  stood  alone,  as  Breed  and 
Nome  left  the  table.  He  listened,  and  heard 
the  opening  and  closing  of  a  second  door. 
Then  a  footstep,  and  Nome  reappeared. 

"By  Heaven,  but  she's  a  beauty!"  he  ex 
claimed.  "I  tell  you,  Steele — " 

Something  in  his  companion's  eyes  stopped 
him.  Two  red  spots  burned  in  Steele's  cheeks 
as  he  advanced  and  gripped  the  other  fiercely 
by  the  arm. 

"Yes,  she  is  pretty — very  pretty,"  he  said 
quietly,  his  fingers  sinking  deeper  into  Nome's 
arm.  "Get  your  hat  and  coat,  Nome.  I  want 
to  see  you  in  the  cabin." 

Behind  them  the  door  opened  and  closed 
42 


A    SKULL    AND    A   FLIRTATION 

again,  and  Steele  shoved  past  his  associate  tc 
meet  Breed. 

"Buck  and  I  have  a  little  matter  to  attend  to 
over  at  the  cabin,"  he  explained.  "When  they 
— when  the  colonel  returns  tell  him  we'll  tx 
over  to  smoke  an  after-supper  pipe  with  him 
a  little  later,  will  you?  And  give  our  compli 
ments  to — her."  With  a  half-sneer  on  his  lip* 
he  rejoined  Nome,  who  stared  hard  at  him, 
and  followed  him  through  the  outer  door. 

"Now,  what  the  devil  does  this  mean?" 
Nome  demanded  when  they  were  outside.  "If 
you  have  anything  on  your  mind,  Steele — " 

"I  have,"  interrupted  Philip,  "and  I'm  go 
ing  to  relieve  myself  of  it.  Pretty?  She's  as 
beautiful  as  an  angel,  Buck — the  colonel's  wife, 
I  mean.  And  you — "  He  laughed  harshly. 
"You're  always  the  lucky  dog,  Buck  Nome. 
You  think  she's  half  in  love  with  you  now. 
Too  bad  she  was  taken  ill  just  at  the  psycho 
logical  moment,  as  you  might  say,  Buck. 
Wonder  what  was  the  matter?" 

43 


PHILIP    STEELE 

"Don't  know,"  growled  Nome,  conscious  of 
something  in  the  other's  voice  which  darkness 
concealed  in  his  face. 

"Of  course,  you  don't,"  replied  Steele. 
"That's  why  I  am  bringing  you  over  to  the 
cabin.  I  am  going  to  tell  you  just  what  hap 
pened  when  Mrs.  Becker  was  taken  ill,  and 
when  she  turned  a  trifle  pale,  if  you  noticed 
sharply,  Buck.  It's  a  good  joke,  a  mighty 
good  joke,  and  I  know  you  will  thoroughly  ap 
preciate  it." 

He  drew  a  step  back  when  they  came  near 
the  cabin,  and  Nome  entered  first.  Very  coolly 
Philip  turned  and  bolted  the  door.  Then, 
throwing  off  his  coat,  he  pointed  to  the  white 
skull  dangling  under  the  lamp. 

"Allow  me  to  introduce  an  old  friend  of 
mine,  Buck — M'sieur  Janette,  of  Nelson 
House." 

With  a  sudden  curse  Nome  leaped  toward 
his   companion,   his   face   flaming,   his   hands 
clenched  to  strike — only  to  look  into  the  shio- 
44 


A   SKULL   AND   A   FLIRTATION 

ing  muzzle  of  Steele's  revolver,  with  Steele's 
cold  gray  eyes  glittering  dangerously  behind  it. 

"Sit  down,  Nome — right  there,  under  the 
man  you  killed!"  he  commanded.  "Sit  down, 
or  by  the  gods  I'll  blow  your  head  off  where 
you  stand!  There — and  I'll  sit  here,  like  this, 
so  that  the  cur's  heart  within  you  is  a  bull's-eye 
for  this  gun.  It's  M'sieur  Janette's  turn  to 
night,"  he  went  on,  leaning  over  the  little 
table,  the  red  spots  in  his  cheeks  growing  red 
der  and  brighter  as  Nome  cringed  before  his 
revolver.  "M'sieur  Janette's — and  the  col 
onel's;  but  mostly  Janette's.  Remember  that, 
Nome.  It's  for  Janette.  I'm  not  thinking 
much  about  Mrs.  Becker — just  now." 

Steele's  breath  came  quickly  and  his  lips 
were  almost  snarling  in  his  hatred  of  the  man 
before  him. 

"It's  a  lie!"  gasped  Nome  chokingly,  his 
face  ashen  white.  "You  lie  when  you  say  I 
killed — Janette." 

The  ringers  of  Steele's  pistol  hand  twitched. 
45 


PHILIP    STEELE 

"How  I'd  like  to  kill  you!"  he  breathed. 
"You  won  his  wife,  Nome;  you  broke  his 
heart — and  after  that  he  killed  himself.  You 
sent  a  report  into  headquarters  that  he  killed 
himself  by  accident.  You  lied.  It  was  you 
who  killed  him — by  taking  his  wife.  I  got  his 
skull  because  I  thought  I  might  need  it  against 
you  to  show  that  it  was  a  pistol  instead  of  a 
rifle  that  killed  him.  And  this  isn't  the  first 
man  you've  sent  to  hell,  Nome,  and  is  isn't  the 
first  woman.  But  your  next  won't  be  Mrs. 
Becker  1" 

He  thrust  his  revolver  almost  into  the  other 
man's  face  as  Nome  opened  his  lips  to  speak. 

"Shut  up!"  he  cried.  "If  you  open  your 
dirty  mouth  again  I'll  be  tempted  to  kill  you 
where  you  sit!  Don't  you  know  what  hap 
pened  to-night?  Don't  you  know  that  Mrs. 
Becker  forgot  herself,  and  remembered  again, 
fust  in  time,  and  that  you've  taken  a  little 
blood  from  the  colonel's  heart  as  you  took  all 
of  it  from — his?"  He  reached  up  and  broke 
46 


A    SKULL    AND    A   FLIRTATION 

the  string  that  held  the  skull,  turning  the  empty 
face  of  the  thing  toward  Nome.  "Look  at  it, 
you  scoundrel!  That's  the  man  you  killed,  as 
you  would  kill  the  colonel  if  you  could.  That's 
Janette!" 

His  voice  fell  to  a  hissing  whisper  as  he 
shoved  the  skull  slowly  across  the  table,  so 
close  that  a  sudden  movement  would  have  sent 
it  against  the  other's  breast. 

"We've  been  fixing  this  thing  up  between  us, 
Bucky — M'sieur  Janette  and  I,"  he  went  on, 
"and  we've  come  to  the  conclusion  that  we 
won't  kill  you,  but  that  you  don't  belong  to  the 
service.  Understand?" 

"You  mean — to  drive  me  out — "  One  of 
Nome's  hands  had  stolen  to  his  side,  and 
Steele's  pistol  arm  grew  tense. 

"On  the  table  with  your  hands,  Bucky! 
There,  that's  better,"  he  laughed  softly. 

"Yes,  we're  going  to  drive  you  out.  You're 
going  to  pack  up  a  few  things  right  away, 
Bucky,  and  you're  going  to  run  like  the  devil 

47 


PHILIP    STEELE 

away  from  this  place.  I'd  advise  you  to  go 
straight  back  to  headquarters  and  resign  from 
the  Northwest  Mounted.  MacGregor  knows 
you  pretty  well,  Bucky,  and  knows  one  or  two 
things  you've  done,  even  though  your  whole 
record  is  not  an  open  book  to  him.  I  don't  be 
lieve  he'll  put  any  obstacles  in  the  way  of  your 
discharge  although  your  enlistment  hasn't  ex 
pired.  Disability  is  an  easy  plea,  you  know. 
But  if  the  inspector  should  think  so  much  of 
you  that  he  is  loath  to  let  you  go,  then  M'sieur 
Janette  and  I  will  have  to  fix  up  the  story  for 
headquarters,  and  I  don't  mind  telling  you 
we'll  add  just  a  little  for  interest,  and  that  the 
woman  and  the  people  at  Nelson  House  will 
swear  to  it.  You've  the  making  of  a  good  out 
law,  Bucky,"  he  smiled  tauntingly,  "and  if  you 
follow  your  natural  bent  you'll  have  some  of 
your  old  friends  after  you,  good  and  hard. 
You'd  better  steer  clear  of  that  though,  and 
try  your  hand  at  being  honest  for  once. 
M'sieur  Janette  wants  to  give  you  this  chance, 
48 


A   SKULL   AND   A   FLIRTATION 

and  you'd  better  make  good  time.  So  get  a 
move  on,  Bucky.  You'll  need  a  blanket  and  a 
little  grub,  that's  all." 

"Steele,  you  don't  mean  this!  Good  God, 
man — "  Nome  had  half  risen  to  his  feet.  "You 
don't  mean  this !" 

With  his  free  hand  Philip  took  out  his 
watch. 

"I  mean  that  if  you  are  not  gone  within  fif 
teen  minutes  I'll  march  you  over  to  Breed  and 
the  colonel,  tell  them  the  story  of  M'sieur  Ja- 
nette,  here,  and  hold  you  until  we  hear  from 
headquarters,"  he  said  quickly.  "Which  will  it 
be,  Nome?" 

Like  one  stunned  by  a  blow  Nome  rose 
slowly  to  his  feet.  He  spoke  no  word  as  he 
carefully  filled  his  pack  with  the  necessities  of 
a  long  journey.  At  the  door,  as  he  opened  it 
to  go,  he  turned  for  just  an  instant  upon 
Steele,  who  was  still  holding  the  revolver  in  his 
hand. 

''Remember,  Bucky,"  admonished  Philip  in 
49 


PHILIP    STEELE 

a  quiet  voice,  "it's  all  for  the  good  of  yourself 
and  the  service." 

Fear  had  gone  from  Nome's  face.  It  was 
filled  now  with  a  hatred  so  intense  that  his 
teeth  shone  like  the  fangs  of  a  snarling  animal. 

"To  hell  with  you,"  he  said,  "and  to  hell 
with  the  service;  but  remember,  Philip  Steele, 
remember  that  some  day  we'll  meet  again." 

"Some  day,"  laughed  Philip.  "Good-by, 
Bucky  Nome — deserter!" 

The  door  closed  and  Nome  was  gone. 

"Now,  M'sieur  Janette,  it's  our  turn,"  cried 
Steele,  smiling  companionably  upon  the  skull 
and  loading  his  pipe.  "It's  our  turn." 

He  laughed  aloud,  and  for  some  time 
puffed  out  luxurious  clouds  of  smoke  in  si 
lence. 

"It's  the  best  day's  work  I've  done  in  my 
life,"  he  continued,  with  his  eyes  still  upon  the 
skull.  "The  very  best,  and  it  would  be  com 
plete,  M'sieur,  if  I  could  send  you  down  to  the 
woman  who  helped  to  kill  you." 
50 


A   SKULL  AND   A   FLIRTATION 

He  stopped,  and  his  eyes  leaped  with  a  sud 
den  fire.  "By  George!"  he  exclaimed,  under 
his  breath.  His  pipe  went  out ;  for  many  min 
utes  he  stared  with  set  face  at  the  skull,  as  if 
it  had  spoken  to  him  and  its  voice  had  trans 
fixed  him  where  he  stood.  Then  he  tossed  his 
pipe  upon  the  table,  collected  his  service  equip 
ment  and  strapped  it  in  his  pack.  After  that 
he  returned  to  the  table  with  a  pad  of  paper 
and  a  pencil  and  sat  down.  His  face  was 
strangely  white  as  he  took  the  skull  in  his 
hands. 

"I'll  do  it,  so  help  me  all  the  gods,  I'll  do 
it !"  he  breathed  excitedly.  "M'sieur,  a  woman 
killed  you — as  much  as  Bucky  Nome,  a  woman 
did  it.  You  couldn't  do  her  any  good — but 
you  might — another.  I'm  going  to  send  you 
to  her,  M'sieur.  You're  a  terrible  lesson,  and 
I  may  be  a  beast ;  but  you're  preaching  a  pow 
erful  sermon,  and  I  guess — perhaps — you  may 
do  her  good.  I'll  tell  her  your  story,  old  man, 
and  the  story  of  the  woman  who  made  you  so 

51 


PHILIP    STEELE 

nice  and  white  and  clean.  Perhaps  she'll  see  the 
moral,  M'sieur.  Eh?  Perhaps!" 

For  a  long  time  he  wrote,  and  when  he  had 
done  he  sealed  the  writing,  put  the  envelope 
and  the  skull  together  in  a  box,  and  tied  the 
whole  with  babiche  string.  On  the  outside  he 
fastened  another  note  to  Breed,  the  factor,  in 
which  he  explained  that  he  and  Bucky  Nome 
had  found  it  necessary  to  leave  that  very  night 
for  the  West.  And  he  heavily  underscored  the 
lines  in  which  he  directed  the  factor  to  see  that 
the  box  was  delivered  to  Mrs.  Colonel  Becker, 
and  that,  as  he  valued  the  honor  and  the 
friendship  of  the  service,  and  especially  of 
Philip  Steele,  all  knowledge  of  it  should  be 
kept  from  the  colonel  himself. 

It  was  eight  o'clock  when  he  went  out  into 
the  night  with  his  pack  upon  his  back.  He 
grunted  approval  when  he  found  it  was  snow 
ing,  for  the  track  of  himself  and  Nome  would 
be  covered.  Through  the  thickening  gloom 
the  two  or  three  lights  in  the  factor's  home 

52 


A    SKULL    AND    A    FLIRTATION 

gleamed  like  distant  stars.  One  of  them  was 
brighter  than  the  others,  and  he  knew  that  it 
came  from  the  rooms  which  Breed  had  fitted 
up  for  the  colonel  and  his  wife.  As  Philip 
halted  for  a  moment,  his  eyes  drawn  by  a 
haunting  fascination  to  that  window,  the  light 
grew  clearer  and  brighter,  and  he  fancied  that 
he  saw  a  face  looking  out  into  the  night — to 
ward  his  cabin.  A  moment  later  he  knew  that  it 
was  the  woman's  face.  Then  a  door  opened, 
and  a  figure  hurried  across  the  open.  He 
stepped  back  into  the  gloom  of  his  own  cabin 
and  waited.  It  was  the  colonel.  Three  times 
he  knocked  loudly  at  the  cabin  door. 

"I'd  like  to  go  out  and  shake  his  hand,"  mut 
tered  Steele.  "I'd  like  to  tell  him  that  he  isn't 
the  only  man  who's  had  an  idol  broken,  and 
that  Mrs.  B.'s  little  flirtation  isn't  a  circum 
stance — to  what  might  have  happened." 

Instead,  he  moved  silently  away,  and  turned 
his  face  into  the  thin  trail  that  buried  itself  in 
the  black  forests  of  the  West. 
53 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  SILKEN  SCARF 

A  LONELINESS  deeper  than  he  had  ever 
known — a  yearning  that  was  almost 
pain,  oppressed  Philip  as  he  left  Lac  Bain  be 
hind  him.  Half  a  mile  from  the  post  he 
stopped  under  a  shelter  of  dense  spruce,  and 
stood  listening  as  there  came  to  him  faintly  the 
distant  howling  of  a  dog.  After  all,  had  he 
done  right  ?  He  laughed  harshly  and  his  hands 
clenched  as  he  thought  of  Bucky  Nome.  He 
had  done  right  by  him.  But  the  skull — Mrs. 
Becker — was  that  right?  Like  a  flash  there 
came  to  him  out  of  the  darkness  a  picture  of 
the  scene  beside  the  fire — of  Mrs.  Becker  and 
the  colonel,  of  the  woman's  golden  head  rest 
ing  on  her  husband's  shoulder,  her  sweet  blue 
eyei  filled  with  all  the  truth  and  glory  of  wom- 
54 


THE    SILKEN    SCARF 

anhood  as  she  had  looked  up  into  his  grizzled 
face.  And  then  there  took  its  place  the  scene 
beside  the  fire  in  the  factor's  room.  He  saw 
the  woman's  flushed  cheeks  as  she  listened  tu 
the  low  voice  of  Bucky  Nome,  he  saw  again 
what  looked  like  yielding  softness  in  her  eyes 
— the  grayish  pallor  in  the  colonel's  face  as  he 
had  looked  upon  the  flirtation.  Yes,  he  had 
done  right.  She  had  recovered  herself  in  time, 
but  she  had  taken  a  little  bit  of  life  from  the 
colonel,  and  from  him.  She  had  broken  his 
ideal — the  ideal  he  had  always  hoped  for,  and 
had  sought  for,  but  had  never  found,  and  he 
told  himself  that  now  she  was  no  better  than 
the  girl  of  the  hyacinth  letter,  whose  golden 
beauty  and  eyes  as  clear  as  an  angel's  had  con 
cealed  this  same  deceit  that  wrecked  men's 
lives.  M'sieur  Janette's  clean,  white  skull  and 
the  story  of  how  and  why  M'sieur  Janette  had 
died  would  not  be  too  great  a  punishment  for 
her. 

He  resumed  his  journey,  striving  to  concen- 
55 


PHILIP   STEELE 

trate  his  mind  on  other  things.  Seven  or  eight 
miles  to  the  south  and  west  was  the  cabin  of 
Jacques  Pierrot,  a  half-breed,  who  had  a 
sledge  and  dogs.  He  would  hire  Jacques  to 
accompany  him  on  his  patrol  in  place  of  Bucky 
Nome.  Then  he  would  return  to  Nelson  House 
and  send  in  his  report  of  Bucky  Nome's  deser 
tion,  since  he  knew  well  enough  after  the  final 
remarks  of  that  gentleman  that  he  did  not  in 
tend  to  sever  his  connection  with  the  Northwest 
Mounted  in  the  regular  way.  After  that —  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he  thought  of  the 
fourteen  months'  of  service  still  ahead  of  him. 
Until  now  his  adventure  as  a  member  of  the 
Royal  Mounted  had  not  grown  monotonous 
for  an  hour.  Excitement,  action,  fighting 
against  odds,  had  been  the  spice  of  life  to  him, 
and  he  struggled  to  throw  off  the  change  that 
had  taken  hold  of  him  the  moment  he  had 
opened  the  hyacinth-scented  letter  of  Mrs. 
Becker.  "You're  a  fool,"  he  argued.  "You're 
as  big  a  fool  as  Bucky  Nome.  My  God — you 
56 


THE   SILKEN    SCARF 

—Phil  Steele — letting  a  married  woman  upset 
you  like  this!" 

It  was  near  midnight  when  he  came  to  Pier 
rot's  cabin,  but  a  light  was  still  burning  in  tht 
half-breed's  log  home.  Philip  kicked  off  his 
snow  shoes  and  knocked  at  the  door.  In  a 
moment  Pierrot  opened  it,  stepped  back,  and 
stared  at  the  white  figure  that  came  in  out  of 
the  storm. 

"Mon  Dieu — it  ees  you — Mee-sair  Philip !" 

Philip  held  out  his  hand  to  Jacques,  and 
shot  a  quick  glance  about  him.  There  had 
been  a  change  in  the  cabin  since  he  had  visited 
it  last.  One  of  Pierrot's  hands  was  done  up 
in  a  sling,  his  face  was  thin  and  pale,  and  his 
dark  eyes  were  sunken  and  lusterless.  In  the 
little  wilderness  home  there  was  an  air  of  de 
sertion  and  neglect,  and  Philip  wondered 
where  Pierrot's  rosy-cheeked,  black-haired 
wife  and  his  half  dozen  children  had  gone. 

"Mon  Dieu — it  ees  you,  Mee-sair  Philip,** 
cried  Pierrot  again,  his  face  lighting  up  with 
57 


PHILIP    STEELE 

pleasure.  "You  come  late.  You  are  hon- 
gree?" 

"I've  had  supper,"  replied  Philip.  "I've  just 
come  from  Lac  Bain.  But  what's  up,  old 
man — ?"  He  pointed  to  Pierrot's  hand,  and 
looked  questionably  about  the  cabin  again. 

"Eh — lovvla — my  wife — she  is  at  Churchill, 
over  on  the  bay,"  groaned  Jacques.  "And  so 
are  the  children.  What!  You  did  not  hear 
at  Lac  Bain?  lowla  is  taken  seek — ver'  seek 
— with  a  strange  thing  which — ugh! — has  to 
be  fixed  with  a  knife,  Mee-sair  Philip.  An'  so 
I  take  her  to  the  doctor  over  at  Churchill,  an' 
he  fix  her — an'  she  is  growing  well  now,  an' 
will  soon  come  home.  She  keep  the  children 
with  her.  She  say  they  mak'  her  think  of 
Jacques,  on  his  trap-line.  Eh — it  ees  lonely — 
dam' — dam'  lonely,  and  I  have  been  gone  from 
my  lowla  but  two  weeks  to-morrow." 

"You  have  been  with  her  at  Fort  Church 
ill?'"  asked  Philip,  taking  off  his  pack  and 
coat. 

58 


THE   SILKEN    SCARF 

"Om,  M'sieur,"  said  Jacques,  falling  into  his 
French.  "I  have  been  there  since  November. 
What!  They  did  not  tell  you  at  Lac  Bain?" 

"No — they  did  not  tell  me.  But  I  was  there 
but  a  few  hours,  Jacques.  Listen — "  He 
pulled  out  his  pipe  and  began  filling  it,  witfl 
his  back  to  the  stove.  "You  saw  people — 
strangers — at  Fort  Churchill,  Jacques?  They 
came  over  on  the  London  ship,  and  among 
them  there  was  a  woman — " 

Pierrot's  pale  face  flashed  up  with  sudden 
animation. 

"Ah — zee  angel!"  he  cried.  "That  is  what 
my  lowla  called  her,  M'sieur.  See!"  He 
pointed  to  his  bandaged  hand.  "Wan  day  that 
bete — the  Indian  dog  of  mine — did  that,  an* 
w'en  I  jumped  up  from  the  snow  in  front  of 
the  company's  store,  the  blood  running  from 
me,  I  see  her  standing  there,  white  an'  scared. 
An'  then  she  run  to  me  with  a  little  scream,  an' 
tear  something  from  her  neck,  an'  tie  it  round 
my  hand.  Then  she  go  with  me  to  my  cabin, 
59 


PHILIP    STEELE 

and  every  day  after  that  she  come  to  see  my 
lowla  an'  the  children.  She  wash  little  Pierre, 
an'  cut  his  hair.  She  wash  Jean  an'  Mabelle. 
She  laugh  an'  sing  an'  hoi'  the  baby,  an'  my 
lowla  laugh  an'  sing;  an'  she  takes  down  my 
lowla's  hair,  which  is  so  long  that  it  falls  to 
her  knees,  an'  does  it  up  in  a  wonderful  way 
an'  says  she  would  give  everything  she  got  if 
the  could  have  that  hair.  An'  my  lowla  laugh 
at  her,  because  her  hair  is  like  an  angel's — like 
fire  w'en  the  sun  is  on  it;  an'  my  lowla  tak' 
hers  down,  all  red  an'  gold,  an'  do  it  up  in  the 
Cree  way.  And  w'en  she  brings  the  man  with 
her — he  laughs  an'  plays  with  the  kids,  an' 
says  he  knows  the  doctor  and  that  there  will 
be  nothing  to  pay  for  all  that  he  is  done.  Ah 
-•—she  ees  wan  be-e-eautiful-1-1  angel!  An'  this 
•—this  is  w'at  she  tied  around  my  hand." 

With  new  life  Pierrot  went  to  a  covered  box 
nailed  against  one  of  the  log  walls  and  a  mo 
ment  later  placed  in   Philip's  hands  a  long, 
flrhite,   silken   neck-scarf.     Once  more  there 
60 


THE   SILKEN    SCARF 

rose  to  his  nostrils  the  sweet,  faint  scent  01 
hyacinth,  and  with  a  sudden  low  cry  Philip 
crushed  the  dainty  fabric  in  a  mass  to  his  face. 
In  that  moment  it  seemed  as  though  the  sweet 
ness  of  the  woman  herself  was  with  him,  stir 
ring  him  at  last  to  confess  the  truth — the  thing 
which  he  had  fought  against  so  fiercely  in  those 
few  hours  at  Lac  Bain ;  and  the  knowledge  that 
he  had  surrendered  to  himself,  that  in  going 
from  Lac  Bain  he  was  leaving  all  that  the 
world  held  for  him  in  the  way  of  woman  and 
love,  drew  his  breath  from  him  in  another 
broken,  stifled  cry. 

When  he  lowered  the  scarf  his  face  was 
white.  Pierrot  was  staring  at  him. 

"It  makes  me  think — of  home,"  he  ex 
plained  lamely.  "Sometimes  I  get  lonely,  too. 
There's  a  girl — down  there — who  wears  a 
scarf  like  this,  and  what  she  wears  smells  like 
a  flower,  just  as  this  does — " 

"Oui,  I  understand,"  said  Pierrot  softly.  "It 
is  the  way  I  feel  when  my  lowla  is  gone." 
61 


PHILIP    STEELE 

He  replaced  the  scarf  in  the  box,  and  when 
he  returned  to  the  stove  Philip  explained  why 
he  had  come  to  his  cabin.  With  Pierrot's  prom 
ise  to  accompany  him  with  dogs  and  sledge  on 
his  patrol  the  next  day  he  prepared  to  go  to 
bed.  Pierrot  also  was  undressing,  and  Philip 
said  to  him  casually. 

"This  woman  —  at  Churchill  —  Jacques  — 
what  if  some  one  should  tell  you  that  she  is  not 
so  much  of  an  angel  after  all — that  she  is,  per 
haps,  something  like — like  the  woman  over  at 
Lac  la  Biche,  who  ran  away  with  the  English 
man?" 

Pierrot  straightened  as  though  Philip  had 
thrust  a  knife-point  into  his  back.  He  broke 
forth  suddenly  into  French. 

"I  would  call  him  a  liar,  M'sieur,"  he  cried 
fiercely.  "I  would  call  him  a  liar,  once — twice 
— three  times,  and  then  if  he  said  it  again  I 
would  fight  him.  Mon  Dieu,  but  it  would  be 
no  sin  to  kill  one  with  a  mouth  like  that !" 

Philip  was  conscious  of  the  hot  blood  rush- 
62 


THE    SILKEN    SCARF 

ing  to  his  face  as  he  bent  over  his  bunk.  The 
depths  of  Pierrot's  faith  shamed  him,  and  he 
crawled  silently  between  the  blankets  and 
turned  his  face  to  the  wall.  Pierrot  extin 
guished  the  light,  and  a  little  later  Philip  could 
hear  his  deep  breathing.  But  sleep  refused  to 
close  his  own  eyes,  and  he  lay  on  his  back, 
painfully  awake.  In  spite  of  the  resolution  he 
had  made  to  think  no  more  of  the  woman  at 
Lac  Bain,  his  mind  swept  him  back  to  her  ir 
resistibly.  He  recalled  every  incident  that  had 
occurred,  every  word  that  she  had  spoken, 
since  he  had  first  looked  upon  her  beautiful 
face  out  on  the  Churchill  trail.  He  could  find 
nothing  but  purity  and  sweetness  until  he  came 
with  her  for  that  fatal  hour  or  two  into  the 
company  of  Bucky  Nome.  And  then,  again, 
his  blood  grew  hot.  But — after  all — was  there 
not  some  little  excuse  for  her  ?  He  thought  of 
the  hundreds  of  women  he  had  known,  and 
wondered  if  there  was  one  among  them  all 
who  had  not  at  some  time  fallen  into  this  same 
63 


PHILIP    STEELE 

little  error  as  Mrs.  Becker.  For  the  first  time 
he  began  to  look  at  himself.  Mrs.  Becker  had 
laughed  with  Bucky  Nome,  her  cheeks  had 
grown  a  little  flushed,  her  eyes  had  shone  radi 
antly — but  were  those  things  a  sin?  Had 
those  same  eyes  not  looked  up  into  his  own, 
filled  with  a  sweetness  that  thrilled  him,  when 
he  bent  over  her  beside  the  fire  out  on  the 
Churchill  trail?  Was  there  not  that  same 
lovely  flush  in  her  face  when  his  lips  had  al 
most  touched  her  hair?  And  had  not  the 
colonel's  sudden  return  brought  a  flush  into 
both  their  faces?  He  smiled  to  himself,  and 
for  a  moment  he  thrilled  ecstatically.  The  re 
action  came  like  a  shock.  In  an  instant  other 
scenes — other  faces — flashed  upon  him,  and 
again  he  saw  the  luring,  beautiful  face  of 
Eileen  Hawkins,  who  smiled  on  men  as  Mrs. 
Becker  had  smiled  on  Bucky  Nome  and  on 
him. 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  tried  to  force  him- 
64 


THE   SILKEN    SCARF 

self  into  sleep,  but  failed.  At  last  he  rose  si 
lently  from  his  bunk,  filled  his  pipe,  and  sat 
down  in  the  darkness  beside  the  stove.  The 
storm  had  increased  to  a  gale,  wailing  and 
moaning  over  the  cabin  outside,  and  the  sound 
carried  him  back  to  the  last  night  in  the  cabin 
far  to  the  south,  when  he  had  destroyed  the 
hyacinth-scented  letter.  The  thought  of  the 
letter  moved  him  restlessly.  He  listened  to 
Pierrot's  breathing,  and  knew  that  the  half- 
breed  was  asleep.  Then  he  rose  to  his  feet  and 
laid  his  pipe  on  the  table.  A  curious  feeling 
of  guilt  came  over  him  as  he  moved  toward 
the  box  in  which  Jacques  had  placed  the  silken 
scarf.  His  breath  came  quickly;  in  the  dark 
his  eyes  shone;  a  tingling  thrill  of  strange 
pleasure  shot  through  him  as  his  fingers 
touched  the  thing  for  which  they  were  search 
ing.  He  drew  the  scarf  out,  and  returned  to 
the  stove  with  it,  crushing  it  in  both  his  hands. 
The  sweetness  of  it  came  to  him  again  like  the 
65 


PHILIP    STEELE 

woman's  breath.  It  was  the  sweetness  of  her 
hair,  of  the  golden  coils  massed  in  the  firelight ; 
a  part  of  the  woman  herself,  of  her  glorious 
eyes,  her  lips,  her  face — and  suddenly  he 
crushed  the  fabric  to  his  own  face,  and  stood 
there,  trembling  in  the  darkness,  while  Jacques 
Pierrot  slept  and  the  storm  wailed  and  moaned 
over  his  head.  For  he  knew — now — that  he 
would  do  more  for  this  woman  than  Jacques 
Pierrot  could  ever  do;  more,  perhaps,  than 
even  the  colonel,  her  husband,  would  do.  His 
heart  seemed  bursting  with  a  new  and  terrible 
pain,  and  the  truth  at  last  seemed  to  rise  and 
choke  him.  He  loved  her.  He  loved  this 
woman,  the  wife  of  another  man.  He  loved 
her  as  he  had  never  dreamed  that  he  could  love 
a  woman,  and  with  the  scarf  still  smothering 
his  lips  and  face  he  stood  for  many  minutes, 
silent  and  motionless,  gathering  himself  slowly 
from  out  of  the  appalling  depths  into  which  he 
had  allowed  himself  to  plunge. 

Then  he  folded  the  scarf,  and  instead  of  re- 
66 


THE   SILKEN    SCARF 

turning  it  to  the  box,  put  it  in  one  of  the  pock 
ets  of  his  coat. 

"Pierrot  won't  care,"  he  excused  himself. 
"And  it's  the  only  thing,  little  girl — the  only 
thing — I'll  ever  have — of  you." 


671 


CHAPTER  V 

BEAUTY-PROOF 

IT  was  Pierrot  who  aroused  Philip  in  the 
morning. 

"Mon  Dieu,  but  you  have  slept  like  a  bear," 
he  exclaimed.  "The  storm  has  cleared  and  it 
will  be  fine  traveling.  Eh — you  have  not 
heard  ?  I  wonder  why  they  are  firing  guns  off 
toward  Lac  Bain!" 

Philip  jumped  from  his  bed,  and  his  first 
look  was  in  the  direction  of  the  box.  He  was 
criminal  enough  to  hope  that  Jacques  would 
not  discover  that  the  scarf  was  missing. 

"A  moose — probably,"  he  said.  "There 
were  tracks  close  up  to  the  post  a  day  or  two 
ago." 

He  was  anxious  to  begin  their  journey,  and 
assisted  Pierrot  in  preparing  breakfast.  The 


BEAUTY-PROOF 

sound  of  guns  impressed  upon  him  the  pos 
sibility  of  some  one  from  Lac  Bain  calling  at 
the  half-breed's  cabin,  and  he  wished  to  avoid 
further  association  with  people  from  the  post 
• — at  least  for  a  time.  At  nine  o'clock  Pierrot 
bolted  the  door  and  the  two  set  off  into  the 
south  and  west.  On  the  third  day  they  swung 
to  the  eastward  to  strike  the  Indians  living 
along  Reindeer  Lake,  and  on  the  sixth  cut  a 
trail  by  compass  straight  for  Nelson  House. 
A  week  later  they  arrived  at  the  post,  and 
Philip  found  a  letter  awaiting  him  calling  him 
to  Prince  Albert.  In  a  way  the  summons  was 
a  relief  to  him.  He  bade  Pierrot  good-by,  and 
set  out  for  Le  Pas  in  company  with  two  In 
dians.  From  that  point  he  took  the  work  train 
to  Etomami,  and  three  hours  later  was  in 
Prince  Albert. 

"Rest  up  for  a  time,  Steele,"  Inspector  Mac- 
Gregor  told  him,  after  he  had  made  a  personal 
report  on  Bucky  Nome. 

During  the  week  that  followed  Philip  had 
6q 


PHILIP    STEELE 

plenty  of  leisure  in  which  to  tell  himself  that 
he  was  a  fool,  and  that  he  was  deliberately 
throwing  away  what  a  munificent  fortune  hao 
placed  in  his  hands.  MacGregor's  announce 
ment  that  he  was  in  line  for  promotion  in  the 
near  future  did  not  stir  him  as  it  would  have 
done  a  few  weeks  before.  In  his  little  bar 
racks  room  he  laughed  ironically  as  he  recalled 
MacGregor's  words,  "We're  going  to  make  a 
corporal  or  a  sergeant  of  you."  He — Philip 
Steele — millionaire,  club  man,  son  of  a  western 
king  of  finance — a  corporal  or  a  sergeant !  For 
the  first  time  the  thought  amused  him,  and 
then  it  maddened  him.  He  had  played  the 
part  of  an  idiot,  and  all  because  there  had  been 
born  within  him  a  love  of  adventure  and  the 
big,  free  life  of  the  open.  No  wonder  some 
of  his  old  club  friends  regarded  him  as  a 
scapegrace  and  a  ne'er-do-well.  Ht  had 
thrown  away  position,  power,  friends  and 
home  as  carelessly  as  he  might  have  tossed 
away  the  end  of  a  cigar.  And  all — for  this? 
70 


BEAUTY-PROOF 

He  looked  about  his  cramped  quarters,  a  halt 
sneer  on  his  lips.  He  had  tied  himself  to  this! 
To  his  ears  there  came  faintly  the  thunder  of 
galloping  hoofs.  Sergeant  Moody  was  train 
ing  his  rookies  to  ride.  The  sneer  left  his  lips, 
and  was  replaced  by  a  quick,  alert  smile  as 
Vie  heard  a  rattle  of  revolver  shots  and  the 
cheering  of  voices.  After  all,  it  was  not  so 
bad.  It  was  a  service  that  made  men,  and  he 
thought  of  the  English  remittance-man,  whose 
father  was  a  lord  of  something-or-other,  and 
who  was  learning  to  ride  and  shoot  out  there 
with  red-headed,  raucous-voiced  Moody.  There 
began  to  stir  in  him  again  the  old  desire  for 
action,  and  he  was  glad  when  word  was  sent  to 
him  that  Inspector  MacGregor  wished  to  see 
him  in  his  office. 

The  big  inspector  was  pacing  back  and  forth 
when  Philip  came  in. 

"Sit  down,  Steele,  sit  down,"  he  said. 
"Take  it  easy,  man — and  have  a  cigar." 

If  MacGregor  had  suddenly  gone  into  a  fit 

71 


PHILIP    STEELE 

Philip  could  not  have  been  more  surprised  than 
at  these  words,  as  he  stood  with  his  cap  in  his 
hand  before  the  desk  of  the  fiery-mustached 
inspector,  who  was  passing  his  box  of  choice 
Havanas.  There  are  tightly  drawn  lines  of 
distinction  in  the  Royal  Mounted.  As  Philip 
had  once  heard  the  commissioner  say,  "Every 
man  in  the  service  is  a  king — but  there  are  dif 
ferent  degrees  of  kings,"  and  for  a  barracks 
man  to  be  asked  to  sit  in  the  inspector's  office 
and  smoke  was  a  sensational  breach  of  the 
usual  code.  But  as  he  had  distinctly  heard  the 
invitation  to  sit,  and  to  smoke,  Philip  pro 
ceeded  to  do  both,  and  waited  in  silence  for 
the  next  mine  to  explode  under  his  feet.  And 
there  was  a  certain  ease  in  his  manner  of  do 
ing  these  things  which  would  have  assured 
most  men  that  he  was  not  unaccustomed  to 
sitting  in  the  presence  of  greatness. 

The  inspector  seemed  to  notice  this.  For 
a  moment  he  stood  squarely  in  front  of  Steele, 
his  hands  shoved  deep  into  his  pockets,  a  twin- 


BEAUTY-PROOF 

kle  in  the  cold,  almost  colorless  eyes  which 
rookies  dreaded  even  more  than  the  fiercely 
turned  red  mustaches.  Then  he  laughed,  a 
rumbling,  chuckling,  companionable  laugh, 
such  as  finds  its  vent  in  the  fellowship  of 
equals,  but  which  is  seldom  indulged  in  by  a 
superior  before  an  inferior  in  the  R.  N.  W.  M. 
Police. 

"Mighty  good  cigars,  eh,  Steele?"  he  asked, 
turning  slowly  toward  the  window.  "The  com 
missioner  sent  'em  up  to  me  from  Regina. 
Nothing  like  a  good  cigar  on  a  dreary  day  like 
this.  Whew,  listen  to  the  wind — straight  from 
Medicine  Hat!" 

For  a  few  moments  he  looked  out  upon  the 
cheerless  drab  roofs  of  the  barracks,  with  their 
wisps  of  pale  smoke  swirling  upward  into  the 
leaden  sky;  counted  the  dozen  gnarled  and 
scrubby  trees,  as  had  become  a  habit  with  him ; 
rested  his  eyes  upon  the  black  and  shriveled 
remnants  of  summer  flower-beds  thrusting 
their  frost-shrunken  stalks  through  the  snow, 

73 


PHILIP    STEELE 

and  then,  almost  as  if  he  were  speaking  to 
himself,    he    said,    "Steele,    are   you   beauty 
proof?" 

There  was  no  banter  in  his  voice.  It  was 
low,  so  low  that  it  had  in  it  the  ring  of  some 
thing  more  than  mere  desire  for  answer,  and 
when  the  inspector  turned,  Philip  observed  a 
thing  that  he  had  never  seen  before — a  flush  in 
MacGregor's  face.  His  pale  eyes  gleamed. 
His  voice  was  filled  with  an  intense  earnest 
ness  as  he  repeated  the  question.  "I  want  to 
know,  Steele.  Are  you  beauty-proof?" 

In  spite  of  himself  Philip  felt  the  fire  rising 
in  his  own  face.  In  that  moment  the  inspector 
could  have  hit  on  no  words  that  would  have 
thrilled  him  more  deeply  than  those  which  he 
had  spoken.  Beauty-proof!  Did  MacGregor 
know  ?  Was  it  possible —  He  took  a  step  for 
ward,  words  came  to  his  lips,  but  he  caught 
himself  before  he  had  given  voice  to  them. 

Beauty-proof! 

74 


BEAUTY-PROOF 

He  laughed,  softly,  as  the  inspector  had 
laughed  a  few  moments  before.  But  there  was 
a  strange  tenseness  in  his  face — something 
which  MacGregor  saw,  but  could  not  under^ 
stand. 

"Beauty-proof?"  He  repeated  the  words, 
looking  keenly  at  the  other.  "Yes,  I  think  I 
am,  sir." 

"You  think  you  are?" 

"I  am  quite  sure  that  I  am,  Inspector.  That 
is  as  far  as  I  can  go." 

The  inspector  seated  himself  at  his  desk  and 
opened  a  drawer.  From  it  he  took  a  photo 
graph.  For  some  time  he  gazed  at  it  in  si 
lence,  puffing  out  clouds  of  smoke  from  his 
cigar.  Then,  without  lifting  his  eyes  from  the 
picture,  he  said :  "I  am  going  to  put  you  up 
against  a  queer  case,  Steele,  and  the  strangest 
thing  about  it  is  its  very  simplicity.  It's  a  job 
for  the  greenest  rookie  in  the  service,  and  yet 
I  swear  that  there  isn't  another  man  in  Sas- 

75 


PHILIP    STEELE 

katchewan  to  whom  I  would  talk  as  I  am  about 
to  talk  to  you.  Rather  paradoxical,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Rather,"  agreed  Philip. 

"And  yet  not  when  you  come  to  understand 
the  circumstances,"  continued  the  inspector, 
placing  the  photograph  face  down  on  the  table 
and  looking  at  the  other  through  a  purple  cloud 
of  tobacco  smoke.  "You  see,  Steele,  I  know 
who  you  are.  I  know  that  your  father  is 
Philip  Steele,  the  big  Chicago  banker.  I  know 
that  you  are  up  here  for  romance  and  adven 
ture  rather  than  for  any  other  thing  there  is  in 
the  service.  I  know,  too,  that  you  are  no 
prairie  chicken,  and  that  most  of  your  life  has 
been  spent  where  you  see  beautiful  women 
every  hour  of  the  day,  and  where  soft  voices 
and  tender  smiles  aren't  the  most  wonderful 
things  in  the  world,  as  they  sometimes  are  up 
here.  Fact  is,  we  have  a  way  of  our  own  of 
running  down  records — " 

"And  a  confounded  clever  one  it  must  be," 
interrupted  Philip  irreverently.  "Had  you  any 
76 


BEAUTY-PROOF 

— any  particular  reason  for  supposing  me  to 
be  'beauty -proof,'  as  you  call  it?"  he  added 
coldly. 

"I've  told  you  my  only  reason,"  said  the  in 
spector,  leaning  over  his  desk.  "You've  seen 
so  many  pretty  faces,  Steele,  and  you've  as 
sociated  with  them  so  long  that  one  up  here 
isn't  going  to  turn  your  head.  Now — " 

MacGregor  hesitated,  and  laughed.  The 
flush  grew  deeper  in  his  cheeks,  and  he  looked 
again  at  the  photograph. 

"I'm  going  to  be  frank  with  you,"  he  went 
on.  "This  young  woman  called  on  me  yester 
day,  and  within  a  quarter  of  an  hour — fifteen 
minutes,  mind  you! — she  had  me  going  like  a 
fool!  Understand?  I'm  not  proof — against 
her — and  yet  I'm  growing  old  in  the  service  and 
haven't  had  a  love  affair  since — a  long  time 
ago.  I'm  going  to  send  you  up  to  the  Wekuskc 
camp,  above  Le  Pas,  to  bring  down  a  prisoner. 
The  man  is  her  husband,  and  he  almost  killed 
Hodges,  who  is  chief  of  construction  up  there. 
77 


PHILIP    STEELE 

The  minimum  he'll  get  is  ten  years,  and  this 
woman  is  moving  heaven  and  earth  to  save 
him.  So  help  me  God,  Steele,  if  I  was  one  of 
Uie  youngsters,  and  she  came  to  me  as  she  did 
yesterday,  I  believe  I'd  let  him  give  me  the 
slip!  But  it  mustn't  happen.  Understand?  It 
mustn't  happen.  We've  got  to  bring  that  man 
down,  and  we've  got  to  give  him  the  law.  Sim 
ple  thing,  isn't  it — this  bringing  a  prisoner 
down  from  Wekusko!  Any  rookie  could  do 
it,  couldn't  he  ?  And  yet—" 

The  inspector  paused  to  light  his  cigar, 
which  had  gone  out.  Then  he  added:  "If 
you'll  do  this,  Steele — and  care  for  it — I'll  see 
that  you  get  your  promotion." 

As  he  finished,  he  tossed  the  photograph 
across  the  desk.  "That's  she.  Don't  ask  me 
how  I  got  the  picture." 

A  curious  thrill  shot  through  Philip  as  he 

picked  up  the  bit  of  cardboard.    It  was  a  won- 

drously  sweet  face  that  looked  squarely  out  of 

it  into  his  eyes,  a  face  so  youthful,  so  rilled 

78 


BEAUTY-PROOF 

with  childish  prettiness  that  an  exclamation  of 
surprise  rose  to  his  lips.  Under  other  circum 
stances  he  would  have  sworn  that  it  was  the 
picture  of  a  school-girl.  He  looked  up,  about 
to  speak,  but  MacGregor  had  turned  again  to 
the  window,  clouds  of  smoke  about  his  head. 
He  spoke  without  turning  his  head. 

"That  was  taken  nearly  ten  years  ago,"  he 
said,  and  Philip  knew  that  he  was  making  an 
effort  to  keep  an  unnatural  break  out  of  his 
voice.  "But  there  has  been  little  change — 
almost  none.  His  name  is  Thorpe.  I  will 
send  you  a  written  order  this  afternoon  and 
you  can  start  to-night." 

Philip  rose,  and  waited. 

"Is  there  nothing  more?"  he  asked,  after  a 
moment.  "This  woman — " 

"There  is  nothing  more,"  interrupted  the  in 
spector,  still  looking  out  through  the  window. 
"Only  this,  Steele — you  must  bring  him  back. 
Whatever  happens,  bring  back  your  prisoner." 

As  he  turned  to  leave,  Philip  fancied  that 
79 


PHILIP    STEELE 

he  caught  something  else — a  stifled,  choking 
breath,  a  sound  that  made  him  turn  his  head 
again  as  he  went  through  the  door.  The  in 
spector  had  not  moved. 

"Now  what  the  deuce  does  this  mean?"  he 
asked  himself,  closing  the  door  softly  behind 
him.  "You're  up  against  something  queer  this 
time,  Philip  Steele,  I'll  wager  dollars  to  dough 
nuts.  Promotion  for  bringing  in  a  prisoner! 
What  in  thunder — " 

He  stopped  for  a  moment  in  one  of  the 
cleared  paths.  From  the  big  low  roofed  drill 
enclosure  a  hundred  yards  away  came  the  dull 
thud  of  galloping  hoofs  and  the  voice  of  Ser 
geant  Moody  thundering  instructions  to  the 
rookies.  Moody  had  a  heart  like  flint  and 
would  have  faced  blazing  cannon  to  perform 
his  duty.  He  had  grown  old  and  ugly  in  the 
service  and  was  as  beauty-proof  as  an  ogre  of 
stone.  Why  hadn't  MacGregor  sent  him? 

Beauty-proof!  The  words  sent  a  swift  rush 
of  thought,  of  regret,  of  the  old  homesickness 
80 


BEAUTY-PROOF 

and  longing  through  Philip  as  he  returned  to 
his  quarters.  He  wondered  just  how  much 
MacGregor  knew,  and  he  sat  down  to  bring  up 
before  him  for  the  thousandth  time  a  vision  of 
the  two  faces  that  had  played  their  part  in  his 
life — the  face  of  the  girl  at  home,  as  beautiful 
as  a  Diane  de  Poitiers,  as  soulless  as  a  sphinx, 
who  had  offered  herself  to  him  in  return  for 
his  name  and  millions,  and  of  that  other  which 
he  had  met  away  up  in  the  frozen  barrens  of 
Lac  Bain.  Beauty-proof!  He  laughed  and 
loaded  his  pipe.  MacGregor  had  made  a  good 
guess,  even  though  he  did  not  know  what  had 
passed  that  winter  before  he  came  north  to 
seek  adventure,  or  of  the  fight  he  had  made  for 
another  woman,  with  Mr.  Bucky  Nome — de 
serter  ! 


81 


CHAPTER  VI 

PHILIP  FOLLOWS  A   PRETTY  FACE 

IT  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  Philip's 
instructions  came  from  the  inspector.  They 
were  tersely  official  in  form,  gave  him  all  nec 
essary  authority,  and  ordered  him  to  leave  for 
Le  Pas  that  night.  Pinned  to  the  order  was 
a  small  slip  of  paper,  and  on  this  MacGregor 
had  repeated  in  writing  his  words  of  a  few 
hours  before :  "Whatever  happens,  bring  back 
your  prisoner." 

There  was  no  signature  to  this  slip,  and  the 
first  two  words  were  heavily  underscored. 
What  did  this  double  caution  mean?  Coming 
from  a  man  like  MacGregor,  who  was  as 
choice  as  a  king  of  his  advice,  Philip  knew  that 
it  was  of  unusual  significance.  If  it  was  in 
tended  as  a  warning,  why  had  not  the  inspector 
82 


PHILIP   FOLLOWS   A   PRETTY   FACE 

given  him  more  detail?  During  the  hour  in 
which  he  was  preparing  for  his  journey  he 
racked  his  brain  for  some  clew  to  the  situation. 
The  task  which  he  was  about  to  perform 
seemed  simple  enough.  A  man  named  Thorpe 
had  attempted  murder  at  Wekusko.  He  was 
already  a  prisoner,  and  he  was  to  bring  him 
down.  The  biggest  coward  in  Saskatchewan, 
or  a  man  from  a  hospital  bed,  could  do  this 
much,  and  yet — 

He  read  the  inspector's  words  over  and  over 
again.  "Whatever  happens !"  In  spite  of  him 
self  a  little  stir  of  excitement  crept  into  his 
blood.  Since  that  thrilling  hour  in  which  he 
had  seen  Bucky  Nome  desert  from  the  service 
he  had  not  felt  himself  moved  as  now,  and  in  a 
moment  of  mental  excitement  he  found  him 
self  asking  a  question  which  a  few  minutes 
before  he  would  have  regarded  as  a  mark  of 
insanity.  Was  it  possible  that  in  the  whole 
of  the  Northland  there  could  be  another 
woman  as  beautiful  as  Colonel  Becker's  wife 

83 


PHILIP    STEELE 

— a  woman  so  beautiful  that  she  had  turned 
even  Inspector  MacGregor's  head,  as  Mrs. 
Becker  had  turned  Bucky  Nome's — and  his? 
Was  it  possible  that  between  these  two  women 
— between  this  wife  of  an  attempted  murderer 
and  Mrs.  Becker  there  was  some  connecting 
link — some  association — 

He  cut  his  thoughts  short  with  a  low  ex 
clamation  of  disgust.  The  absurdity  of  the 
questions  he  had  asked  himself  brought  a  flush 
into  his  face.  But  he  could  not  destroy  the 
undercurrent  of  emotions  they  had  aroused. 
Anyway,  something  was  going  to  happen.  He 
was  sure  of  that.  The  inspector's  actions,  his 
words,  his  mysterious  nervousness,  the  strange 
catch  in  his  voice  as  they  parted,  all  assured 
him  that  there  was  a  good  reason  for  the  re 
peated  warning.  And  whatever  did  happen 
was  to  be  brought  about  by  the  woman  whose 
girlish  beauty  he  had  looked  upon  in  the  pic 
ture.  That  MacGregor  was  aware  of  the  na 
ture  of  his  peril,  if  he  was  to  run  into  danger 
84 


PHILIP  FOLLOWS  A  PRETTY  FACE 

at  all,  he  was  sure,  and  he  was  equally  certain 
that  some  strong  motive  restrained  the  inspect 
or  from  saying  more  than  he  had.  Already 
ic  began  to  scent  in  the  adventure  ahead  of 
nim  those  elements  of  mystery,  of  excitement, 
even  of  romance,  the  craving  for  which  was 
an  inherited  part  of  his  being.  And  with  these 
things  there  came  another  sensation,  one  that 
surprised  and  disquieted  him.  A  few  days  be 
fore  his  one  desire  had  been  to  get  out  of  the 
north  country,  to  place  as  much  distance  as 
possible  between  himself  and  Lac  Bain.  And 
now  he  found  himself  visibly  affected  by  the 
thought  that  his  duty  was  to  take  him  once 
more  in  the  direction  of  the  woman  whose 
sweet  face  had  become  an  indissoluble  part  of 
his  existence.  He  would  not  see  her.  Even  at 
Wekusko  he  would  be  many  days'  journey 
from  Lac  Bain.  But  she  would  be  nearer  to 
lim,  and  it  was  this  that  quickened  his  pulse. 

He  was  ten  minutes  early  for  his  train,  and 
employed  that  interval  in  mingling  among  the 

85 


PHILIP    STEELE 

people  at  the  station.  MacGregor  had  as  much 
as  told  him  that  whatever  unusual  thing  might 
develop  depended  entirely  upon  the  appearance 
of  the  woman  and  he  began  to  look  for  her. 
She  was  not  at  the  station.  Twice  he  walked 
through  the  coaches  of  his  train  without  dis 
covering  a  face  that  resembled  that  in  the 
photograph. 

It  was  late  when  he  arrived  at  Etomami, 
where  the  sixty  mile  line  of  the  Hudson's  Bay 
Railroad  branches  off  to  the  north.  At  dawn 
he  entered  the  caboose  of  the  work  train,  which 
was  to  take  him  up  through  the  wilderness  to 
Le  Pas.  He  was  the  only  passenger. 

"There  ain't  even  a  hand-car  gone  up  ahead 
of  us,"  informed  the  brakeman  in  response  to 
his  inquiry.  "This  is  the  only  train  in  five 
days." 

After  all,  it  was  to  be  a  tame  affair,  in  spite 

of  the  inspector's   uneasiness   and   warnings, 

thought  Philip.     The  woman  was  not  ahead 

of  him.     Two  days  before  she  had  been  in 

86 


PHILIP   FOLLOWS   A   PRETTY   FACE 

MacGregor's  office,  and  under  the  circum 
stances  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  be  at  Le 
Pas  or  at  Wekusko,  unless  she  had  traveled 
steadily  on  dog  sledge.  Philip  swore  softly  to 
himself  in  his  disappointment,  ate  breakfast 
with  the  train  gang,  went  to  sleep,  and  awoke 
when  they  plowed  their  way  into  the  snow- 
smothered  outpost  on  the  Saskatchewan. 

The  brakeman  handed  him  a  letter. 

"This  came  on  the  Le  Pas  mail,"  he  ex 
plained.  "I  kept  it  out  for  you  instead  of 
sending  it  to  the  office." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Philip.  "A  special — 
from  headquarters.  Why  in  thunder  didn't 
they  send  me  a  messenger  instead  of  a  letter, 
Braky?  They  could  have  caught  me  on  the 
train." 

He  tore  open  the  departmental  envelope  as 
he  spoke  and  drew  forth  a  bit  of  folded  paper. 
It  was  not  the  official  letter-head,  but  at  a 
glance  Philip  recognized  the  inspector's  scrawl 
ing  writing  and  his  signature.  It  was  one  of 
87 


PHILIP    STEELE 

MacGregor's  quiet  boasts  that  the  man  did  not 
live  who  could  forge  his  name. 

An  astonished  whistle  broke  from  his  lips  as 
he  read  these  few  lines : 

Follow  your  conscience,  whatever  you  do. 
Both  God  and  man  wiK  reward  you  in  the  end. 

FELIX  MACGREGOR. 

And  this  was  all.  There  was  no  date,  no 
word  of  explanation;  even  his  own  name  had 
been  omitted  from  this  second  order.  He 
picked  up  the  envelope  which  had  fallen  to  the 
floor  and  looked  at  the  postmark.  It  had  been 
stamped  four-thirty.  It  was  after  five,  an  hour 
later,  that  he  had  received  his  verbal  instruc 
tions  from  MacGregor!  The  inspector  must 
have  written  the  note  before  their  interview  of 
the  preceding  afternoon — before  his  repeated 
injunction  of  "Whatever  happens,  bring  back 
your  prisoner!"  But  this  letter  was  evidently 
intended  as  final  instructions  since  it  had  beetv 
sent  so  as  to  reach  him  at  this  time.  What  did 
88 


PHILIP  FOLLOWS  A  PRETTY  FACE 

it  mean  ?  The  question  buzzed  in  Philip's  brain, 
repeated  itself  twenty  times,  fifty  times,  as  he 
hurried  through  the  gathering  darkness  of  the 
semi-polar  night  toward  the  log  hotel  of  the 
place.  He  was  convinced  that  there  was  some 
hidden  motive  in  the  inspector's  actions.  What 
was  he  to  understand? 

Suddenly  he  stopped,  a  hundred  yards  from 
the  glimmering  lights  of  the  Little  Saskatche 
wan  hotel,  and  chuckled  audibly  as  he  stuffed 
his  pipe.  It  flashed  upon  him  now  why  Mac- 
Gregor  had  chosen  him  instead  of  an  ordinary 
service  man  to  bring  down  the  prisoner  from 
Wekusko.  MacGregor  knew  that  he,  Philip 
Steele,  college  man  and  man  of  the  world, 
would  reason  out  the  key  to  this  little  puzzle, 
whereas  Sergeant  Moody  and  others  of  his  type 
would  turn  back  for  explanations.  And  In 
spector  MacGregor,  twenty  years  in  the  service, 
and  recognized  as  the  shrewdest  man-hunter 
between  the  coasts,  wished  to  give  no  ex 
planation.  Philip's  blood  tingled  with  fresh 
80 


PHILIP    STEELE 

excitement  as  the  tremendous  risk  which  the 
inspector  himself  was  running,  dawned  upon 
him.  Publicity  of  the  note  which  he  held  in  his 
hand  would  mean  the  disgrace  and  retirement 
even  of  Felix  MacGregor. 

He  thrust  the  letter  in  his  pocket  and  hur 
ried  on.  The  lights  of  the  settlement  were 
already  agleam.  From  the  edge  of  the  frozen 
river  there  came  the  sound  of  a  wheezy  ac 
cordion  in  a  Chinese  cafe,  and  the  howling  of 
a  dog,  either  struck  by  man  or  worsted  in  a 
fight.  Where  the  more  numerous  lights  of  the 
one  street  shone  red  against  the  black  back 
ground  of  forest,  a  drunken  half-breed  was 
chanting  in  half-Cree,  half-French,  the  chorus 
of  the  caribou  song.  He  heard  the  distant 
snapping  of  a  whip,  the  yelping  response  of 
huskies,  and  a  moment  later  a  sledge  and  six 
dogs  passed  him  so  close  that  he  was  com 
pelled  to  leap  from  their  path.  This  was  Le 
Pas — the  wilderness !  Beyond  it,  just  over  the 
frozen  river  which  lay  white  and  silent  before 
90 


PHILIP   FOLLOWS   A   PRETTY   FACE 

him,  stretched  that  endless  desolation  of  ro 
mance  and  mystery  which  he  had  grown  to 
love,  a  world  of  deep  snows,  of  silent-tongued 
men,  of  hardship  and  battle  for  life  where  the 
law  of  nature  was  the  survival  of  the  fittest, 
and  that  of  man,  "Do  unto  others  as  ye  would 
that  they  should  do  unto  you."  Never  did 
Philip  Steele's  heart  throb  with  the  wild,  free 
pulse  of  life  and  joy  as  in  such  moments  as 
these,  when  his  fortune,  his  clubs,  and  his 
friends  were  a  thousand  miles  away,  and  he 
stood  on  the  edge  of  the  big  northern  Un 
known. 

As  he  had  slept  through  the  trainmen's  din 
ner  hour,  he  was  as  hungry  as  a  wolf,  and  he 
lost  no  time  in  seating  himself  in  a  warm  cor 
ner  of  the  low,  log-ceilinged  dining-room  of 
the  Little  Saskatchewan.  Although  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  early,  he  had  hardly  placed  himself 
at  his  table  when  another  person  entered  the 
room.  Casually  he  glanced  up  from  the  two 
letters  which  he  had  spread  out  before  him. 


PHILIP    STEELE 

The  one  who  had  followed  him  was  a  woman. 
She  had  turned  sharply  upon  seeing  him  and 
seated  herself  at  the  next  table,  her  back  so 
toward  him  that  he  caught  only  her  half  pro 
file. 

It  was  enough  to  assure  him  that  she  was 
young  and  pretty.  On  her  head  she  wore  a 
turban  of  silver  lynx  fur,  and  about  this  she 
had  drawn  her  glossy  brown  hair,  which  shone 
like  burnished  copper  in  the  lamp-glow,  and 
had  gathered  it  in  a  bewitchingly  coquettish 
knot  low  on  her  neck,  where  it  shone  with  a 
new  richness  and  a  new  warmth  with  every 
turn  of  her  head.  But  not  once  did  she  turn 
so  that  Philip  could  see  more  than  the  tan 
talizing  pink  of  her  cheek  and  the  prettiness  of 
her  chin,  which  at  times  was  partly  concealed 
in  a  collarette  of  the  same  silver  gray  lynx  fur. 

He  ate  his  supper  almost  mechanically,  in 

spite  of  his  hunger,  for  his  mind  was  deep  in 

the  mysterious  problem  which  confronted  him. 

Half   a   dozen   times   he   broke   in    upon   his 

92 


PHILIP   FOLLOWS   A   PRETTY   FACE 

thoughts  to  glance  at  the  girl  at  the  opposite 
table.  Once  he  was  sure  that  she  had  been 
looking  at  him  and  that  s-he  had  turned  just  in 
time  to  keep  her  face  from  him.  Philip  ad 
mired  pretty  women,  and  of  all  beauty  in 
woman  he  loved  beautiful  hair,  so  that  more 
and  more  frequently  his  eyes  traveled  to  the 
shining  wealth  of  copper-colored  tresses  near 
him.  He  had  almost  finished  his  supper  when 
a  movement  at  the  other  table  drew  his  eyes 
up  squarely,  and  his  heart  gave  a  sudden  jump. 
The  girl  had  risen.  She  was  facing  him,  and 
as  for  an  instant  their  eyes  met  she  hesitated, 
as  if  she  were  on  the  point  of  speaking.  In 
that  moment  he  recognized  her. 

It  was  the  girl  in  the  photograph,  older, 
more  beautiful — the  same  soft,  sweet  contour 
of  face,  the  same  dark  eyes  that  had  looked  at 
him  in  MacGregor's  office,  filled  with  an  inde 
scribable  sadness  now,  instead  of  the  laughing 
joy  of  girlhood.  In  another  moment  he  would 
have  responded  to  her  hesitation,  to  the 
93 


PHILIP    STEELE 

thctic  tremble  of  her  lips,  but  before  words 
could  form  themselves  she  had  turned  and  was 
gone.  And  yet  at  the  door,  even  as  she  dis 
appeared,  he  saw  her  face  turned  to  him  again, 
pleadingly,  entreatingly,  as  if  she  knew  his 
mission  and  sent  to  him  a  silent  prayer  for 
mercy. 

Thrusting  back  his  chair,  he  caught  up  his 
hat  from  a  rack  and  followed.  He  was  in  time 
to  see  her  pass  through  the  low  door  out  into 
the  night.  Without  hesitation  his  mind  had 
leaped  to  a  definite  purpose.  He  would  over 
take  her  outside,  introduce  himself,  and  then 
perhaps  he  would  understand  the  conflicting 
orders  of  Inspector  MacGregor. 

The  girl  was  passing  swiftly  down  the  main 
street  when  he  took  up  the  pursuit.  Suddenly 
she  turned  into  a  path  dug  through  the  snow 
that  led  riverward.  Ahead  of  her  there  was 
only  the  starlit  gloom  of  night  and  the  distant 
blackness  of  the  wilderness  edge.  Philip's 
blood  ran  a  little  faster.  She  had  expected  that 
94 


PHILIP   FOLLOWS   A   PRETTY   FACE 

he  would  follow,  knew  that  he  was  close  be 
hind  her,  and  had  turned  down  into  this  de 
serted  place  that  they  might  not  be  observed! 
He  made  no  effort  now  to  overtake  her,  but 
kept  the  same  distance  between  them,  whistling 
carelessly  and  knowing  that  she  would  stop  to 
wait  for  him.  Ahead  of  them  there  loomed  up 
out  of  the  darkness  a  clump  of  sapling  spruce, 
and  into  their  shadow  the  girl  disappeared. 

A  dozen  paces  more  and  Philip  himself  was 
buried  in  the  thick  gloom.  He  heard  quick, 
light  footsteps  in  the  snow-crust  ahead  of  him. 
Then  there  came  another  sound — a  step  close 
behind  him,  a  noise  of  disturbed  brush,  a  low 
voice  which  was  not  that  of  a  woman,  and  be 
fore  his  hand  could  slip  to  the  holster  at  his 
belt  a  human  form  launched  itself  upon  him 
from  the  side,  and  a  second  form  from  behind, 
and  under  their  weight  he  fell  a  helpless  heap 
into  the  snow.  Powerful  hands  wrenched  his 
arms  behind  his  back  and  other  hands  drew  a 
cloth  about  his  mouth.  A  stout  cord  was 

95 


PHILIP    STEELE 

twisted  around  his  wrists,  his  legs  were  tied, 
and  then  his  captors  relieved  him  of  their 
weight 

Not  a  word  had  been  spoken  during  the  brief 
struggle.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  now  as  his 
mysterious  assailants  hoisted  him  between  them 
and  followed  in  the  footsteps  of  the  woman. 
Scarcely  a  hundred  paces  beyond  the  spruce 
the  dark  shadow  of  a  cabin  came  into  view. 
Into  this  he  was  carried  and  placed  on  some 
thing  which  he  took  to  be  a  box.  Then  a  light 
was  struck. 

For  the  first  time  Philip's  astonished  eyes 
had  a  view  of  his  captors.  One  of  them  was  an 
old  man,  a  giant  in  physique,  with  a  long  gray 
beard  and  grayish  yellow  hair  that  fell  to  his 
shoulders.  His  companion  was  scarcely  more 
than  a  boy,  yet  in  his  supple  body,  as  he  moved 
about,  Philip  recognized  the  animal-like 
strength  of  the  forest  breed.  A  word  spoken 
in  a  whisper  by  the  boy  revealed  the  fact  that 
the  two  were  father  and  son.  From  that  side 
96 


PHILIP   FOLLOWS   A   PRETTY   FACE 

of  the  room  which  was  at  Philip's  back  they 
dragged  forth  a  long  pine  box,  and  were  en 
gaged  in  this  occupation  when  the  door  opened 
and  a  third  man  entered.  Never  had  Philip 
looked  on  a  more  unprepossessing  face  than 
that  of  the  newcomer,  in  whose  little  black 
eyes  there  seemed  to  be  a  gloating  triumph  as 
he  leered  at  the  prisoner.  He  was  short,  with 
a  huge  breadth  of  shoulders.  His  eyes  and 
mouth  and  nose  were  all  but  engulfed  in  super 
fluous  flesh,  and  as  he  turned  from  Philip  to  the 
man  and  boy  over  the  box  he  snapped  the  joints 
of  his  fingers  in  a  startling  manner. 

"Howdy,  howdy!"  he  wheezed,  like  one  af 
flicted  with  asthma.  "Good!  good!"  With 
these  four  words  he  lapsed  into  the  silence  of 
the  older  man  and  the  boy. 

As  the  box  was  dragged  full  into  the  light,  a 
look  of  horror  shot  into  Philip's  eyes.  It  was 
the  rough-box  of  a  coffin!  Without  a  word, 
and  apparently  without  a  signal,  the  three  sur 
rounded  him  and  lifted  him  bodily  into  it.  To 
97 


PHILIP    STEELE 

his  surprise  he  found  himself  lying  upon  some 
thing  soft,  as  if  the  interior  of  his  strange 
prison  had  been  padded  with  cushions.  Then, 
with  extreme  caution,  his  arms  were  freed 
from  under  his  back  and  strapped  to  his  side, 
and  other  straps,  broad  and  firm,  were  fastened 
from  side  to  side  of  the  box  across  his  limbs 
and  body,  as  if  there  were  danger  of  his  flying 
up  and  out  through  the  top.  Another  moment 
and  a  shadow  fell  above  him,  pitch  gloom  en 
gulfed  him. 

They  were  dragging  on  the  cover  to  the  box ! 
He  heard  the  rapid  beating  of  a  hammer,  the 
biting  of  nails  into  wood,  and  he  writhed  and 
struggled  to  free  his  hands,  to  cry  out,  to  gain 
the  use  of  his  legs,  but  not  the  fraction  of  an 
inch  could  he  relieve  himself  of  his  fetters. 
After  a  time  his  straining  muscles  relaxed,  and 
he  stopped  to  get  his  breath  and  listen.  Faintly 
there  came  to  him  the  sound  of  subdued  voices, 
and  he  caught  a  glimmer  of  light,  then  another, 
and  still  a  third.  He  saw  now  that  half  a  dozen 

98 


PHILIP   FOLLOWS   A   PRETTY   FACE 

holes  had  been  bored  into  the  cover  and  sides 
of  the  box.  The  discovery  brought  with  it  a 
sense  of  relief.  At  least  he  was  not  to  be  suf 
focated.  He  found,  after  an  interval,  that  he 
was  even  comfortable,  and  that  his  captors  had 
not  only  given  him  a  bed  to  lie  upon,  but  had 
placed  a  pillow  under  his  head. 


99 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE   TRAGEDY   IN   THE   CABIN 

A  FEW  moments  later  Philip  heard  the 
movement  of  heavy  feet,  the  opening 
and  closing  of  a  door,  and  for  a  time  after  that 
there  was  silence.  Had  MacGregor  anticipated 
this,  he  wondered  ?  Was  this  a  part  of  the  pro 
gram  which  the  inspector  had  foreseen  that  he 
would  play  ?  His  blood  warmed  at  the  thought 
and  he  clenched  his  fists.  Then  he  began  to 
think  more  calmly.  His  captors  had  not  re 
lieved  him  of  his  weapons.  They  had  placed 
his  service  cap  in  the  box  with  him  and  had 
unbuckled  his  cartridge  belt  so  that  he  would 
rest  more  comfortably.  What  did  all  this 
mean  ?  For  the  hundredth  time  he  asked  him 
self  the  question. 

Returning  footsteps  interrupted  his  thoughts. 
100 


THE   TRAGEDY   IN   THE   CABIN 

The  cabin  door  opened,  people  entered,  again 
he  heard  whispering  voices. 

He  strained  his  ears.  At  first  he  could  have 
sworn  that  he  heard  the  soft,  low  tones  of  a 
woman's  voice,  but  they  were  not  repeated. 
Hands  caught  hold  of  the  box,  dragged  it 
across  the  floor,  and  then  he  felt  himself  lifted 
bodily,  and,  after  a  dozen  steps,  placed  care 
fully  upon  some  object  in  the  snow.  His 
amazement  increased  when  he  understood  what 
was  occurring. 

He  was  on  a  sledge.  Through  the  air-holes 
in  his  prison  he  heard  the  scraping  of  strap- 
thongs  as  they  were  laced  through  the  runner- 
slits  and  over  the  box,  the  restless  movement  of 
dogs,  a  gaping  whine,  the  angry  snap  of  a  pair 
of  jaws.  Then,  slowly,  the  sledge  began  to 
move.  A  whip  cracked  loudly  above  him,  a 
voice  rose  in  a  loud  shout,  and  the  dogs  were 
urged  to  a  trot.  Again  there  came  to  Philip's 
ears  the  wheezing  notes  of  the  accordion.  By 
a.  slight  effort  he  found  that  he  could  turn  his 
101 


PHILIP    STEELE 

head  sufficiently  to  look  through  a  hole  on  a 
level  with  his  eyes  in  the  side  of  the  box.  The 
sledge  had  turned  from  the  dark  trail  into  the 
lighted  street,  and  stopped  at  last  before  a  bril 
liantly  lighted  front  from  which  there  issued 
the  sound  of  coarse  voices,  of  laughter  and 
half-drunken  song. 

One  of  his  captors  went  into  the  bar  while 
the  other  seated  himself  on  the  box,  with  one 
leg  shutting  out  Philip's  vision  by  dangling  it 
over  the  hole  through  which  he  was  looking. 

"What's  up,  Fingy?"  inquired  a  voice. 

"Wekusko,"  replied  the  man  on  the  box,  in 
the  husky,  flesh-smothered  tones  of  the  person 
who  had  entered  last  into  the  cabin 

"Another  dead  one  up  there,  eh?"  persisted 
the  same  voice. 

"No.  Maps  'n'  things  f'r  Hodges,  up  at  the 
camp.  Devil  of  a  hurry,  ain't  he,  to  order  us 

up  at  night?  Tell to  hustle  out  with  the 

bottle,  will  you  ?" 

The  speaker  sent  the  lash  of  his  whip  snap- 
1 02 


THE   TRAGEDY   IN    THE   CABIN 

ping  through  the  air  in  place  of  supplying  a 
name. 

"Maps  and  things — for  Hodges — Wekus- 
ko!"  gasped  Philip  inwardly. 

He  listened  for  further  information.  None 
came,  and  soon  the  man  called  Fingy  jumped 
from  the  box,  cracked  his  whip  with  a  wheez 
ing  command  to  the  dogs,  and  the  sledge 
moved  on. 

And  so  his  captors  were  taking  him  to  We- 
kusko? — and  more  than  that,  to  Hodges,  chief 
of  construction,  whose  life  had  been  attempted 
by  the  prisoner  whom  Inspector  MacGregor 
had  ordered  him  to  bring  down!  Had  Fingy 
spoken  the  truth  ?  And,  if  so,  was  this  another 
part  of  the  mysterious  plot  foreseen  by  the  in 
spector  ? 

During  the  next  half  hour,  in  which  the 
sledge  traveled  steadily  over  the  smooth,  hard 
trail  into  the  north,  Philip  asked  himself  these 
and  a  score  of  other  questions  equally  perplex 
ing.  He  was  certain  that  the  beautiful  young 
103 


PHILIP    STEELE 

woman  whom  he  had  followed  had  purposely 
lured  him  into  the  ambush.  He  considered 
himself  her  prisoner.  Then  why  should  he  be 
consigned,  like  a  parcel  of  freight,  to  Hodges, 
her  husband's  accuser,  and  the  man  who  de 
manded  the  full  penalty  of  the  law  for  his  as 
sailant  ? 

The  more  he  added  to  the  questions  that 
leaped  into  his  mind  the  more  mystified  he  be 
came.  The  conflicting  orders,  the  strange  de 
meanor  of  his  chief,  the  pathetic  appeal  that  he 
had  seen  in  the  young  woman's  eyes,  the  am 
bush,  and  now  this  unaccountable  ride  to  We- 
kusko,  strapped  in  a  coffin  box,  all  combined  to 
plunge  him  into  a  chaos  of  wonder  from  which 
it  was  impossible  for  him  to  struggle  forth. 
However,  he  assured  himself  of  two  things;  he 
was  comparatively  comfortable,  and  within 
two  hours  at  the  most  they  would  reach 
Hodges'  headquarters,  if  the  Wekusko  camp 
were  really  to  be  their  destination.  Something 
must  develop  then. 

104 


THE   TRAGEDY   IN   THE   CABIN 

It  had  ceased  to  occur  to  him  that  there  was 
peril  in  his  strange  position.  If  that  were  so, 
would  his  captors  have  left  him  in  possession 
of  his  weapons,  even  imprisoned  as  he  was? 
If  they  had  intended  him  harm,  would  they 
have  cushioned  his  box  and  placed  a  pillow 
under  his  head  so  that  the  cloth  about  his 
mouth  would  not  cause  him  discomfort?  It 
struck  him  as  peculiarly  significant,  now  that 
he  had  suffered  no  injury  in  the  short  struggle 
on  the  trail,  that  no  threats  or  intimidation  had 
been  offered  after  his  capture.  This  was  a  part 
of  the  game  which  he  was  to  play!  He  became 
more  and  more  certain  of  it  as  the  minutes 
passed,  and  there  occurred  to  him  again  and 
again  the  inspector's  significant  words,  "What 
ever  happens!"  MacGregor  had  spoken  the 
words  with  particular  emphasis,  had  repeated 
them  more  than  once.  Were  they  intended  tc 
give  him  a  warning  of  this,  to  put  him  on  his 
guard,  as  well  as  at  his  ease?" 

And  with  these  thoughts,  many,  conflicting 
105 


PHILIP    STEELE 

and  mystifying,  he  found  it  impossible  to  keep 
from  associating  other  thoughts  of  Bucky 
Nome,  and  of  the  woman  whom  he  now 
frankly  confessed  to  himself  that  he  loved.  If 
conditions  had  been  a  little  different,  if  the  in 
cidents  had  not  occurred  just  as  they  had,  he 
might  have  suspected  the  hand  of  Bucky  Nome 
in  what  was  transpiring  now.  But  he  discarded 
that  suspicion  the  instant  that  it  came  to  him. 
That  which  remained  with  him  more  and  more 
deeply  as  the  minutes  passed  was  a  mental  pic 
ture  of  the  two  women — of  this  woman  who 
was  fighting  to  save  her  husband,  and  of  the 
other,  whom  he  loved,  and  for  whom  he  had 
fought  to  save  her  for  her  husband.  It  was 
with  a  dull  feeling  of  pain  that  he  compared  the 
love,  the  faith,  and  the  honor  of  this  woman 
whose  husband  had  committed  a  crime  with 
that  one  night's  indiscretion  of  Mrs.  Becker. 
It  was  in  her  eyes  and  face  that  he  had  seen  a 
purity  like  that  of  an  angel,  and  the  pain 
seemed  to  stab  him  deeper  when  he  thought 
106 


THE   TRAGEDY   IN   THE   CABIN 

that,  after  all,  it  was  the  criminal's  wife  who 
was  proving  herself,  not  Mrs.  Becker. 

He  strove  to  unburden  his  mind  for  a  time, 
and  turned  his  head  so  that  he  could  peer 
through  the  hole  in  the  side  of  the  box.  The 
moon  had  risen,  and  now  and  then  he  caught 
flashes  of  the  white  snow  in  the  opens,  but 
more  frequently  only  the  black  shadows  of  the 
forest  through  which  they  were  passing.  They 
had  not  left  Le  Pas  more  than  two  hours  be 
hind  when  the  sledge  stopped  again  and  Philip 
saw  a  few  scattered  lights  a  short  distance 
away. 

"Must  be  Wekusko,"  he  thought.  "Hello, 
what's  that?" 

A  voice  came  sharply  from  the  opposite  side 
of  the  box. 

"Is  that  you,  Fingy?"  it  demanded.  "What 
the  devil  have  you  got  there?" 

"Your  maps  and  things,  sir,"  replied  Fingy 
hoarsely.     "Couldn't  come  up  to-morrow,  so 
thought  we'd  do  it  to-night." 
107 


PHILIP    STEELE 

Philip  heard  the  closing  of  a  door,  and  foot 
steps  crunched  in  the  snow  close  to  his  ears. 

"Love  o'  God!"  came  the  voice  again. 
"What's  this  you've  brought  them  up  in, 
Fingy?" 

"Coffin  box,  sir.  Only  thing  the  maps  'd  fit 
into,  and  it's  been  layin'  around  useless  since 
MacVee  kem  down  in  it.  Mebby  you  can  find 
use  for  it,  later,"  he  chuckled  grewsomely. 
"Ho-ho-ho !  mebby  you  can !" 

A  moment  later  the  box  was  lifted  and 
Philip  knew  that  he  was  being  carried  up  a  step 
and  through  a  door,  then  with  a  suddenness 
that  startled  him  he  found  himself  standing 
upright.  His  prison  had  been  set  on  end ! 

"Not  that  way,  man,"  objected  Hodges,  for 
Philip  was  now  certain  that  he  was  in  the  pres 
ence  of  the  chief  of  construction.  "Put  it 
down — over  there  in  the  corner." 

"Not  on  your  life,"  retorted  Fingy,  cracking 
his  finger  bones  fiercely.  "See  here,  Mister 
Hodges,  I  ain't  a  coward,  but  I  b'lieve  in  bein' 
108 


THE   TRAGEDY   IN    THE   CABIN 

respectful  to  the  dead,  'n'  to  a  box  that's  held 
one.  It  says  on  that  red  card,  'Head — This 
end  up,'  an',  s'elp  me,  it's  going  to  be  up,  un 
less  you  put  it  down.  I  ain't  goin'  to  be  ha'nted 
by  no  ghosts !  Ho,  ho,  ho — "  He  approached 
close  to  the  box.  "I'll  take  this  red  card  off, 
Mister  Hodges.  It  ain't  nat'ral  when  there 
ain't  nothing  but  maps  'n'  things  in  it." 

If  the  cloth  had  not  been  about  his  mouth,  it 
is  possible  that  Philip  would  not  have  re 
strained  audible  expression  of  his  astonish 
ment  at  what  happened  an  instant  later.  The 
card  was  torn  off,  and  a  ray  of  light  shot  into 
his  eyes.  Through  a  narrow  slit  not  more  than 
a  quarter  of  an  inch  wide,  and  six  inches  long, 
he  found  himself  staring  out  into  the  room. 
The  huge  gray-bearded  man  who  had  set  upon 
him  from  the  ambush  was  at  the  door,  about  to 
leave.  Fingy  was  close  behind  him.  And  in 
the  rear  of  these  two,  as  if  eager  for  their  de 
parture,  was  Hodges,  chief  of  construction. 

No  sooner  had  the  men  gone  than  Hodges 
109 


PHILIP    STEELE 

turned  back  to  the  table  in  the  center  of  the 
office.  It  was  not  difficult  for  Philip  to  see  that 
the  man's  face  was  flushed  and  that  he  was 
laboring  under  some  excitement.  He  sat  down, 
fumbled  over  some  papers,  rose  quickly  to  his 
feet,  looked  at  his  watch,  and  began  pacing 
back  and  forth  across  the  room. 

"So  she's  coming,"  he  chuckled  gleefully. 
"She's  coming,  at  last!"  He  looked  at  his 
watch  again,  straightened  his  cravat  before  a 
mirror,  and  rubbed  his  hands  with  a  low  laugh. 
"The  little  beauty  has  surrendered,"  he  went 
on,  his  face  turning  for  an  instant  toward  the 
coffin  box.  "And  it's  time — past  time." 

A  light  knock  sounded  at  the  door,  and  the 
chief  sprang  to  open  it.  A  figure  darted  past 
him,  and  for  but  a  breath  a  white,  beautiful 
face  was  turned  toward  Philip  and  his  prison — 
the  face  of  the  young  woman  whom  he  had 
seen  but  two  hours  before  in  Le  Pas,  the  face 
that  had  pleaded  with  him  that  night,  that  had 
smiled  upon  him  from  the  photograph,  and  that 
no 


THE   TRAGEDY   IN   THE   CABIN 

seemed  to  be  masked  now  in  a  cold  marble-like 
horror,  as  its  glorious  eyes,  like  pools  of  glow 
ing  fire,  seemed  searching  him  out  through  that 
narrow  slit  in  the  coffin  box. 

Hodges  had  advanced,  with  arms  reaching 
out,  and  the  woman  turned  with  a  low,  sobbing 
breath  breaking  from  her  lips. 

Another  step  and  Hodges  would  have  taken 
her  in  his  arms,  but  she  evaded  him  with  a 
quick  movement,  and  pointed  to  a  chair  at  one 
side  of  the  table. 

"Sit  down!"  she  cried  softly.  "Sit  down, 
and  listen!" 

Was  it  fancy,  or  did  her  eyes  turn  with  al 
most  a  prayer  in  them  to  the  box  against  the 
wall?  Philip's  heart  was  beating  like  a  drum. 
That  one  word  he  knew  was  intended  for  him. 

"Sit  down,"  she  repeated,  as  Hodges  hesi 
tated.  "Sit  down — there — and  I  will  sit  here. 
Before — before  you  touch  me,  I  want  an  un 
derstanding.  You  will  let  me  talk,  and  listen 
-listen!" 

in 


PHILIP    STEELE 

Again  that  one  word — "listen!" — Philip 
knew  was  intended  for  him. 

The  chief  had  dropped  into  his  chair,  and  his 
visitor  seated  herself  opposite  him,  with  her 
face  toward  Philip.  She  flung  back  the  fur 
from  about  her  shoulders,  and  took  off  her  fur 
turban,  so  that  the  light  of  the  big  hanging 
lamp  fell  full  upon  the  glory  of  her  hair,  and 
set  off  more  vividly  the  ivory  pallor  of  her 
cheeks,  in  which  a  short  time  before  Philip  had 
seen  the  rich  crimson  glow  of  life,  and  some 
thing  that  was  not  fear. 

"We  must  come  to  an  understanding,"  she 
repeated,  fixing  her  eyes  steadily  upon  the  man 
before  her.  "I  would  sacrifice  my  life  for  him 
— for  my  husband — and  you  are  demanding 
that  I  do  more  than  that.  I  must  be  sure-of  the 
reward !" 

Hodges  leaned  forward  eagerly,  as  if  about 
to  speak,  but  she  interrupted  him. 

"Listen !"  she  cried,  a  fire  beginning  to  burn 
through  the  whiteness  of  her  cheeks.  "It  was 
112 


THE   TRAGEDY   IN    THE   CABIN 

you  who  urged  him  to  come  up  here  when, 
through  misfortune,  we  lost  our  little  home 
down  in  Marion.  You  offered  him  work,  and 
he  accepted  it,  believing  you  a  friend.  He  still 
thought  you  a  friend  when  I  knew  that  you 
were  a  traitor,  planning  and  scheming  to  wreck 
his  life,  and  mine.  He  would  not  listen  when 
I  spoke  to  him,  without  arousing  his  suspicions, 
of  my  abhorrence  of  you.  He  trusted  you.  He 
was  ready  to  fight  for  you.  And  you — you — " 

In  her  excitement  the  young  woman's  hands 
gripped  the  edges  of  the  table.  For  a  few  mo 
ments  her  breath  seemed  to  choke  her,  and  then 
she  continued,  her  voice  trembling  with  pas 
sion. 

"And  you — you  followed  me  about  like  a 
serpent,  making  every  hour  of  my  life  one  of 
misery,  because  he  believed  in  you,  and  I  dared 
not  tell  him.  So  I  kept  it  from  him — until  that 
night  you  came  to  our  cabin  when  he  was  away, 
and  dared  to  take  me  in  your  arms,  to  kiss  me, 
und  I — I  told  him  then,  and  he  hunted  you 


PHILIP    STEELE 

down  and  would  have  killed  you  if  there  hadn't 
been  others  near  to  give  you  help.  My  God,  I 
love  him  more  because  of  that!  But  I  was 
wrong.  I  should  have  killed  you !" 

She  stopped,  her  breath  breaking  in  a  sob. 
With  a  sudden  movement  Hodges  sprang  from 
his  chair  and  came  toward  her,  his  face  flushed, 
his  lips  smiling ;  but,  quicker  than  he,  Thorpe's 
wife  was  upon  her  feet,  and  from  his  prison 
Philip  saw  the  rapid  rising  and  falling  of  her 
bosom,  the  threatening  fire  in  her  beautiful 
eyes  as  she  faced  him. 

"Ah,  but  you  are  beautiful!"  he  heard  the 
man  say. 

With  a  cry,  in  which  there  was  mingled  all 
the  passion  and  gloating  joy  of  triumph, 
Hodges  caught  her  in  his  arms.  In  that  mo 
ment  every  vein  in  Philip's  body  seemed  flood 
ed  with  fire.  He  saw  the  woman's  face  again, 
now  tense  and  white  in  an  agony  of  terror,  saw 
her  struggle  to  free  herself,  heard  the  smoth 
ered  cry  that  fell  from  her  lips.  For  the  first 
114 


THE   ri  RAGED  Y   IN   THE   CABIN 

time  he  strained  to  free  himself,  to  cry  out 
through  the  thick  bandage  that  gagged  him. 
The  box  trembled.  His  mightiest  effort  almost 
sent  it  crashing  to  the  floor.  Sweating,  power 
less,  he  looked  again  through  the  narrow  slit 
In  the  struggle  the  woman's  hair  had  loosened, 
and  tumbled  now  in  shining  masses  down  her 
back.  Her  hands  were  gripping  at  Hodges' 
throat.  Then  one  of  them  crept  down  to  her 
bosom,  and  with  that  movement  there  came  a 
terrible,  muffled  report.  With  a  groan  the  chief 
staggered  back  and  sank  to  the  floor. 

For  a  moment,  stupefied  by  what  she  had 
done,  Thorpe's  wife  stood  with  smoking  pistol 
in  her  hand,  gazing  upon  the  still  form  at  her 
feet.  Then,  slowly,  like  one  facing  a  terrible 
accuser,  she  turned  straight  to  the  coffin  box. 
The  weapon  that  she  held  fell  to  the  floor. 
Without  a  tremor  in  her  beautiful  face  she 
went  to  one  side  of  the  room,  picked  up  a  small 
belt-ax,  and  began  prying  off  the  cover  to 
Philip's  prison.  There  was  still  no  hesitation, 

"5 


PHILIP    STEELE 

no  tremble  of  fear  in  her  face  or  hands  when 
the  cover  gave  way  and  Philip  stood  revealed, 
his  face  as  white  as  her  own  and  bathed  in  a 
perspiration  of  excitement  and  horror.  Calmlj 
she  took  away  the  cloth  about  his  mouth,  loos 
ened  the  straps  about  his  legs  and  arms  and 
body,  and  then  she  stood  back,  still  speechless, 
her  hands  clutching  at  her  bosom  while  she 
waited  for  him  to  step  forth. 

His  first  movement  was  to  fall  upon  his 
knees  beside  Hodges.  He  bowed  his  head,  lis 
tened,  and  held  his  hand  under  the  man's 
waistcoat.  Then  he  looked  up.  The  woman 
was  bending  over  him,  her  eyes  meeting  his 
own  unflinchingly. 

"He  is  dead !"  he  said  quietly. 

"Yes,  my  brother,  he  is  dead !" 

The  sweet,  low  tones  of  the  woman's  voice 
rose  scarcely  above  a  whisper.  The  meaning 
of  her  words  sank  into  his  very  soul. 

"My  sister — "  he  repeated,  hardly  knowing 
that  the  words  were  on  his  lips.    "My — " 
116 


THE   TRAGEDY   IN   THE   CABIN 

"Or — your  wife,"  she  interrupted,  and  her 
hand  rested  gently  for  a  moment  upon  his 
shoulder.  "Or  your  wife — what  would  you 
have  had  her  do  ?" 

Her  voice — the  gentleness  of  her  touch,  sent 
his  mind  flashing  back  to  that  other  tragic  mo 
ment  in  a  little  cabin  far  north,  when  he  had 
almost  killed  a  man,  and  for  less  than  this  that 
he  had  heard  and  seen.  It  seemed,  for  an  in 
stant,  as  though  the  voice  so  near  to  him  was 
coming,  faintly,  pleadingly,  from  that  other 
woman  at  Lac  Bain — the  woman  who  had  al 
most  caused  a  tragedy  similar  to  this,  only  with 
the  sexes  changed.  He  would  have  excused 
Colonel  Becker  for  killing  Bucky  Nome,  for 
defending  his  own  honor  and  his  wife's.  And 
here — now — was  a  woman  who  had  fought  and 
killed  for  her  own  honor,  and  to  save  her  hus 
band.  His  sister — his  wife —  Would  he  have 
had  them  do  this?  Would  he  have  Mrs. 
Becker,  the  woman  he  loved,  defend  her  honoi 
as  this  woman  had  defended  hers?  Would  he 
117 


PHILIP    STEELE 

not  have  loved  her  ten  times — a  hundred  times 
— more  for  doing  so  ? 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  making  an  effort  to  steel 
himself  against  the  justice  of  what  he  had  seen 
— against  the  glory  of  love,  of  womanhood,  of 
triumph  which  he  saw  shining  in  her  eyes. 

"I  understand  now,"  he  said.  "You  had  me 
brought  here — in  this  way — that  I  might  hear 
what  was  said,  and  use  it  as  evidence.  But — " 

"Oh,  my  God,  I  did  not  mean  to  do  this," 
she  cried,  as  if  knowing  what  he  was  about  to 
say.  "I  thought  that  if  he  betrayed  his  vileness 
to  you — if  he  knew  that  the  world  would  know, 
through  you,  how  he  had  attempted  to  destroy 
a  home,  and  how  he  offered  my  husband's  free 
dom  in  exchange  for — but  you  saw,  you  heard, 
you  must  understand!  He  would  not  dare  to 
go  on  when  he  knew  that  all  this  would  become 
public.  My  husband  would  have  been  free. 
But  now—" 

"You  have  killed  him,"  said  Philip. 

There  was  no  sympathy  in  his  voice.    It  was 


THE   TRAGEDY   IN    THE   CABIN 

the  cold,  passionless  accusation  of  a  man  of  the 
law,  and  the  woman  bowed  her  face  in  her 
hands.  He  put  on  his  service  cap,  tightened 
his  belt,  and  touched  her  gently  on  the  arm. 

"Do  you  know  where  your  husband  is  con 
fined?"  he  asked.  "I  will  take  you  there,  and 
you  may  remain  with  him  to-night." 

She  brightened  instantly.  "Yes,"  she  said. 
"Come!" 

They  passed  through  the  door,  closing  it 
carefully  behind  them,  and  the  woman  led  the 
way  to  a  dark,  windowless  building  a  hundred 
yards  from  the  dead  chief's  headquarters. 

"This  is  the  camp  prison,"  she  whispered. 

A  man  clad  in  a  great  bear-skin  coat  was  on 
guard  at  the  door.  In  the  moonlight  he  recog 
nized  Philip's  uniform. 

"Here  are  orders  from  the  inspector,"  said 
Philip,  holding  out  MacGregor's  letter.  "I  am 
to  have  charge  of  the  prisoner.  Mrs.  Thorpe 
is  to  spend  the  night  with  him." 

A.  moment  later  the  door  was  opened  and  the 
no 


PHILIP    STEELE 

woman  passed  in.  As  he  turned  away  Philip 
heard  a  low  sobbing  cry,  a  man's  startled  voice. 
Then  the  door  swung  heavily  on  its  hinges  and 
there  was  silence. 

Five  minutes  later  Philip  was  bending  again 
over  the  dead  man.  A  surprising  transforma 
tion  had  come  over  him  now.  His  face  was 
flushed  and  his  strong  teeth  shone  in  sneering 
hatred  as  he  covered  the  body  with  a  blanket. 
On  the  wall  hung  a  pair  of  overalls  and  a 
working-man's  heavy  coat.  These  and  Hodges' 
hat  he  quickly  put  on  in  place  of  his  own  uni 
form.  Once  more  he  wen*  out  into  the  night. 

This  time  he  came  up  back  of  the  prison. 
The  guard  was  pacing  back  and  forth  in  his 
beaten  path,  so  thickly  muffled  about  the  ears 
that  he  did  not  hear  Philip's  cautious  footsteps 
behind  him.  When  he  turned  he  found  the 
muzzle  of  a  revolver  within  arm's  length  of  his 
face. 

"Hands  up!"  commanded  Philip. 

The  astonished  man  obeyed  without  a  word. 
1 20 


THE   TRAGEDY   IN    THE   CABIN 

"If  you  make  a  move  or  the  slightest  sound 
I'll  kill  you!"  continued  Philip  threateningly. 
"Drop  yoyr  hands  behind  you — there,  like 
that!" 

With  the  quickness  and  skill  which  he  had 
acquired  under  Sergeant  Moody  he  secured  the 
guard's  wrists  with  one  of  the  coffin  box  straps, 
and  gagged  him  with  the  same  cloth  that  had 
been  used  upon  himself.  He  had  observed  that 
his  prisoner  carried  the  key  to  the  padlocked 
cabin  in  one  of  his  coat  pockets,  and  after  pos 
sessing  himself  of  this  he  made  him  seat  him 
self  in  the  deep  shadow,  strapped  his  ankles, 
and  then  unlocked  the  prison  door. 

There  was  a  light  inside,  and  from  beyond 
this  the  white  faces  of  the  man  and  the  woman 
stared  at  him  as  he  entered.  The  man  was 
leaning  back  in  his  cot,  and  Philip  knew  that 
the  wife  had  risen  suddenly,  for  one  arm  was 
still  encircling  his  shoulders,  and  a  hand  was 
resting  on  his  cheek  as  if  she  had  been  stroking 
it  caressingly  when  he  interrupted  them.  Her 
121 


PHILIP    STEELE 

beautiful,  startled  eyes  gazed  at  him  half  defi 
antly  now. 

He  advanced  into  the  light,  took  off  his  hat, 
and  smiled. 

With  a  cry  Thorpe's  wife  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"Sh-h-h-h-h !"  warned  Philip,  raising  a  hand 
and  pointing  to  the  door  behind  them. 

Thorpe  had  risen.  Without  a  word  Philip 
advanced  and  held  out  his  hand.  Only  half 
understanding,  the  prisoner  reached  forth  his 
own.  As,  for  an  instant,  the  two  men  stood  in 
this  position,  one  smiling,  the  other  transfixed 
with  wonder,  there  came  a  stifled,  sobbing  cry 
from  behind.  Philip  turned.  The  woman 
stood  in  the  lamp  glow,  her  arms  reaching  out 
to  him — to  both — and  never,  not  even  at  Lac 
Bain,  had  he  seen  a  woman  more  beautiful  than 
Thorpe's  wife  at  that  moment. 

As  if  nothing  had  happened,  he  went  to  the 
table,  where  there  was  a  pen  and  ink  and  a  pad 
of  paper. 

"Perhaps  your  wife  hasn't  told  you  every- 
122 


THE   TRAGEDY   IN   THE   CABIN    • 

thing  that  has  happened  to-night,  Thorpe,"  he 
said.  "If  she  hasn't,  she  will — soon.  Now, 
listen!" 

He  had  pulled  a  small  book  from  an  inner 
pocket  and  was  writing. 

"My  name  is  Steele,  Philip  Steele,  of  the 
Royal  Mounted.  Down  in  Chicago  I've  got  a 
father,  Philip  Egbert  Steele,  a  banker,  who's 
worth  half  a  dozen  millions  or  so.  You're  go 
ing  down  to  him  as  fast  as  dog-sledge  and  train 
can  carry  you,  and  you'll  give  him  this  note.  It 
says  that  your  name  is  Johnson,  and  that  for 
my  sake  he's  going  to  put  you  on  your  feet,  so 
that  it  is  going  to  be  pretty  blamed  comfortable 
for  yourself — and  the  noblest  little  woman  I've 
ever  met.  Do  you  understand,  Thorpe  ?" 

He  looked  up.  Thorpe's  wife  had  gone  to 
her  husband.  She  stood  now,  half  in  his  arms, 
and  looking  at  him;  as  they  were,  they  re 
minded  him  of  a  couple  who  had  played  the 
finale  in  a  drama  which  he  had  seen  a  year 
before. 

123 


PHILIP    STEELE 

"There  is  one  favor  which  you  must  do  me, 
Thorpe,"  he  went  on.  "At  home  I  am  rich. 
Up  here  I'm  only  Phil  Steele,  of  the  Royal 
Mounted.  I'm  telling  you  so  that  you  won't 
think  that  I'm  stripping  myself  when  I  make 
you  take  this.  It's  a  little  ready  cash,  and  a 
check  for  a  thousand  dollars.  Some  day,  if 
you  want  to,  you  can  pay  it  back.  Now  hustle 
up  and  get  on  your  clothes.  I  imagine  that 
your  friends  are  somewhere  near — with  the 
sledge  that  brought  me  up  from  Le  Pas.  To 
morrow,  of  course,  I  shall  be  compelled  to  take 
up  the  pursuit.  But  if  you  hurry  I  don't  be 
lieve  that  I  shall  catch  you." 

He  rose  and  put  on  his  hat,  leaving  the 
money  and  the  check  on  the  table.  The  woman 
staggered  toward  him,  the  man  following  in  a 
dazed,  stunned  sort  of  way.  He  saw  the  wom 
an's  arms  reaching  out  to  him  again,  a  look  in 
her  beautiful  face  that  he  would  never  forget. 

In  another  moment  he  had  opened  the  door 
and  was  gone. 

124 


CHAPTER   VIII 

ANOTHER   LETTER    FOR    PHILIP 

FROM  beside  his  prisoner  in  the  deep  gloom 
Philip  saw  Thorpe  and  his  wife  come  out 
of  the  cabin  a  minute  later  and  hurry  away 
through  the  night.  Then  he  dragged  the  guard 
into  the  prison,  relocked  the  door,  left  the  key 
in  the  lock,  and  returned  to  Hodges'  office  to 
replace  the  old  clothes  for  his  uniform. 

Not  until  he  stood  looking  down  upon  the 
dead  body  again  did  the  enormity  of  his  own 
offense  begin  to  crowd  upon  him.  But  he  was 
not  frightened  nor  did  he  regret  what  he  had 
done.  He  turned  out  the  light,  sat  down,  coolly 
filled  his  pipe,  and  began  turning  the  affair 
over,  detail  by  detail,  in  his  mind.  He  had,  at 
least,  followed  Inspector  MacGregor's  injunc 
tion — he  had  followed  his  conscience.  Hodges 
125 


PHILIP    STEELE 

•!iad  got  what  he  deserved,  and  he  had  saved  a 
tnan  and  a  woman. 

But  in  spite  of  his  first  argument,  he  knew 
that  MacGregor  had  not  foreseen  a  tragedy  of 
this  sort,  and  that,  in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  he 
was  guilty  of  actively  assisting  in  the  flight  of 
two  people  who  could  not  possibly  escape  the 
penalty  of  justice — if  caught.  But  they  would 
not  be  caught.  He  assured  himself  of  that, 
smiling  grimly  in  the  darkness.  No  one  at 
Wekusko  could  explain  what  had  happened. 
He  was  positive  that  the  guard  had  not  recog 
nized  him,  and  that  he  would  think  one  of 
Thorpe's  friends  had  effected  the  rescue.  And 
MacGregor — 

Philip  chuckled  as  he  thought  of  the  con 
demning  evidence  in  his  possession,  the  strange 
orders  which  would  mean  dismissal  for  the 
inspector,  and  perhaps  a  greater  punishment,  if 
he  divulged  them.  He  would  be  safe  in  telling 
MacGregor  something  of  what  had  occurred  in 
the  little  cabin.  And  then,  as  he  sat  in  this 
126 


ANOTHER    LETTER    FOR    PHILIP 

grim  atmosphere  of  death,  a  thought  came  to 
him  of  M'sieur  Janette's  skull,  of  Bucky  Nome, 
and  of  the  beautiful  young  wife  at  Lac  Bain. 
If  Mrs.  Becker  could  know  of  this,  too — if 
Bucky  Nome,  buried  somewhere  deep  in  the 
northern  wilderness,  could  only  see  Hodges  as 
he  lay  there,  dead  on  the  cabin  floor!  To  the 
one  it  would  be  a  still  greater  punishment,  to 
the  other  a  warning.  And  yet,  even  as  he 
thought  of  the  colonel's  wife  and  of  her  flirta 
tion  with  Nome,  a  vision  of  her  face  came  to 
him  again,  filled  with  the  marvelous  sweetness, 
the  purity,  and  the  love  which  had  enthralled 
him  beside  the  camp-fire.  In  these  moments  it 
was  almost  impossible  for  him  to  convince  him 
self  that  she  had  forgotten  her  dignity  as  a 
wife  even  for  an  hour.  Could  he  have  been 
mistaken?  Had  he  looked  at  her  with  eyes 
neated  by  his  own  love,  fired  by  jealousy?  If 
she  had  smiled  upon  him  instead  of  upon 
Bucky  Nome,  if  her  cheeks  had  flushed  at  his 
words,  would  he  have  thought  that  she  had 
127 


PHILIP    STEELE 

done  wrong?  As  if  in  answer  to  his  own  ques 
tions,  he  saw  again  the  white,  tense  face  of  the 
colonel,  her  husband,  and  he  laughed  harshly. 

For  several  hours  Philip  remained  in  the 
shelter  of  Hodges'  office.  With  early  dawn  he 
stole  out  into  the  forest,  and  a  little  later  made 
his  appearance  in  camp,  saying  that  he  had 
spent  the  night  at  Le  Pas.  Not  until  an  hour 
later  was  it  discovered  that  Hodges  had  been 
killed,  the  guard  made  a  prisoner,  and  that 
Thorpe  and  his  wife  were  gone.  Philip  at  once 
took  charge  of  affairs  and  put  a  strain  on  his 
professional  knowledge  by  declaring  that 
Thorpe  had  undoubtedly  fled  into  the  North. 
Early  in  the  afternoon  he  started  in  pursuit. 

A  dozen  miles  north  of  the  Wekusko  camp 
he  swung  at  right  angles  to  the  west,  traveled 
fifteen  miles,  then  cut  a  straight  course  south, 
It  was  three  days  later  before  he  showed  up  at 
Le  Pas,  and  learned  that  no  one  had  seen  of 
heard  of  Thorpe  and  his  wife.  Two  days  later 
he  walked  into  MacGregor's  office.  The  in- 
128 


ANOTHER    LETTER    FOR    PHILIP 

specter  fairly  leaped  from  his  chair  to  greet 
him. 

"You  got  them,  Steele !"  he  cried.  "You  got 
them  after  the  mur — the  killing  of  Hodges?" 

Philip  handed  him  a  crumpled  bit  of  paper. 

"Those  were  your  latest  instructions,  sir,"  he 
replied  quietly.  "I  followed  them  to  the  letter." 

MacGregor  read,  and  his  face  turned  as 
white  as  the  paper  he  held.  "Good  God!"  he 
gasped. 

He  reeled  rather  than  walked  b^ck  to  his 
desk,  dropped  into  a  chair  and  buried  his  face 
in  his  arms,  his  shoulders  shaking  like  those  of 
a  sobbing  boy.  It  was  a  long  time  before  he 
looked  up,  and  during  these  minutes  Philip, 
with  his  head  bowed  low  to  the  other,  told  him 
of  all  that  had  happened  in  the  little  room  at 
Wekusko.  But  he  did  not  say  that  it  was  he 
who  had  surprised  the  guard  and  released 
Thorpe  and  his  wife. 

At  last  MacGregor  raised  his  head. 

"Philip,"  he  said,  taking  the  young  man's 
129 


PHILIP    STEELE 

hand  in  both  his  own,  "since  she  was  a  little 
girl  and  I  a  big,  strapping  playmate  of  nine 
teen,  I  have  loved  her.  She  is  the  only  girl 

the  only  woman — I  have  ever  loved.    You 

understand  ?  I  am  almost  old  enough  to  be  her 
father.  She  was  never  intended  for  me.  But 
things  like  this  happen— sometimes,  and  when 
she  came  to  plead  with  me  the  other  day  I  al 
most  yielded.  That  is  why  I  chose  you,  warned 
you—" 

He  stopped,  and  a  sob  rose  in  his  breast. 
"And  at  last  you  did  yield,"  said  Philip. 
The  inspector  gazed  at  him  for  a  moment  in 
silence.    Then  he  said :    "It  was  ten  years  ago, 
on  her  seventeenth  birthday,  that  I  made  her  a 
present  of  a  little  silver-bound  autograph  book, 
and  on  the  first  page  of  that  book  I  wrote  the 
words  which  saved  her  husband — and  her.    Do 
you  understand  now,  Philip?    It  was  her  last 
card,  and  she  played  it  well." 

He  smiled  faintly,  and  then  said,  as  if  to  no 
one  but  himself,  "God  bless  her!" 
130 


ANOTHER   LETTER   FOR   PHILIP 

He  looked  down  on  the  big,  tawny  head  that 
was  bowed  again  upon  the  desk,  and  placed  his 
hands  on  the  other's  shoulders. 

"God  bless  her!"  echoed  Philip. 

"You  are  not  alone  in  you?-  sorrows,  Felix 
MacGregor,"  he  said  softly.  "You  asked  me  if 
I  was  beauty-proof.  Yes,  I  am.  And  it  is  be 
cause  of  something  like  this,  because  of  a  face 
and  a  soul  that  have  filled  my  heart,  because  of 
a  woman  that  is  not  mine,  and  never  can  be 
mine,  because  of  a  love  which  ever  burns,  and 
must  never  be  known — it  is  because  of  this 
that  I  am  beauty-proof.  God  bless  this  little 
woman,  MacGregor — and  you — and  I — will 
never  ask  where  she  has  gone." 

MacGregor's  hand  reached  out  and  gripped 
his  own  in  silence.  In  that  hand-clasp  there 
was  sealed  a  pact  between  them,  and  Philip  re 
turned  to  his  barracks  room  to  write  a  letter,  in 
care  of  his  father,  to  the  man  and  woman 
whom  he  had  helped  to  escape  into  the  south. 
He  spent  the  greater  part  of  that  day  writing. 


PHILIP    STEELE 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  that  Moody  came 
in  with  the  mail. 

"One  for  you,  Phil,"  he  said,  tossing  a  letter 
on  Philip's  table.  "Looks  as  though  it  had 
been  through  a  war." 

Philip  picked  up  the  letter  as  the  sergeant 
left  him.  He  dropped  his  pen  with  a  low 
whistle.  He  could  see  at  a  glance  that  the  let 
ter  had  come  an  unusual  journey.  It  was  dirty, 
and  crumpled,  and  ragged  at  the  ends — and 
then,  on  the  back  of  it,  he  found  written  in  ink, 
"Lac  Bain."  His  fingers  trembled  as  he  tore 
open  the  envelope.  Swiftly  he  read.  His 
breath  came  in  a  gasping  cry  from  between  his 
lips,  his  face  turned  as  white  as  the  crumpled 
paper,  and  then,  as  suddenly,  a  flush  of  excite 
ment  leaped  into  his  cheeks,  replacing  the  pal 
lor.  His  eyes  seemed  blinded  before  he  had 
half  finished  the  letter,  and  his  heart  was 
pounding  with  suffocating  force. 

This  was  what  he  read : 
132 


ANOTHER   LETTER   FOR    PHILIP 

My  Dear  Philip  Steele : 

Your  letter,  and  the  skull,  came  to  us  to-day. 
I  thank  God  that  chance  brought  me  into  my 
Isobel's  room  in  time,  or  I  fear  for  what  might 
have  happened.  It  was  a  terrible  punishment, 
my  dear  Steele,  for  her — and  for  me.  But  I 
deserved  it  more  than  she.  That  very  night — 
after  Isobel  left  the  table — she  insisted  that  I 
explain.  When  I  returned  to  the  room  below, 
you  were  gone.  I  waited,  and  then  went  to 
your  cabin.  You  know  why  I  did  not  find  you. 
Steele,  Isobel  is  not  my  wife.  She  is  my 
daughter. 

Mrs.  Becker  had  planned  to  come  with  me  to 
Lac  Bain  from  Fort  Churchill,  and  we  wrote 
the  factor  to  that  effect.  But  we  changed  our 
plans.  Mrs.  Becker  returned  on  the  London 
ship,  and  Isobel  came  with  me.  In  a  spirit  of 
fun  she  suggested  that  for  the  first  few  hours 
she  be  allowed  to  pass  as — well,  you  under 
stand.  The  joke  was  carried  too  far.  When 
she  met  you — and  Bucky  Nome — it  ceased  to 
be  a  joke,  and  almost  became  a  tragedy.  For 
those  few  minutes  before  the  fire  Isobel  used 
her  disguise  as  a  test.  She  came  to  me,  before 

133 


PHILIP    STEELE 

you  joined  us,  and  whispered  to  me  that  Nome 
was  a  scoundrel,  and  that  she  would  punish  him 
before  the  evening  was  over.  In  the  short  space 
of  that  evening  she  knew  that  she  had  met  one 
of  the  most  despicable  of  blackguards  in  Nome, 
and  one  of  the  noblest  of  men  in  you.  And  not 
until  she  saw  on  you  the  effect  of  what  she  was 
doing  did  everything  dawn  fully  upon  her. 

You  know  what  happened.  She  left  the 
table  suddenly,  overcome  by  shame  and  terror. 
When  I  returned  later,  and  told  her  that  I  could 
not  find  you,  it  was  impossible  to  comfort  her. 
She  lay  in  her  bed  crying  all  that  night.  I  am 
telling  you  all  this,  because  to  me  my  daughter 
is  one  of  the  two  most  precious  things  on  earth, 
the  sweetest  and  purest  little  girl  that  ever 
breathed.  I  can  not  describe  to  you  the  effect 
upon  her  of  the  skull  and  the  letter.  Forgive 
us — forgive  me.  Some  day  we  may  meet 
again  SYLVESTER  BECKER. 


Like  one  in  a  dream  Philip  picked  up  the 
torn   envelope.     Something   dropped    from    it 
upon  the  table — a  tiny  cluster  of  violets  that 
134 


ANOTHER   LETTER   FOR    PHILIP 

had  been  pressed  and  dried  between  the  pages 
of  a  book,  and  when  he  took  them  in  his  fingers 
he  found  that  their  stems  were  tied  with  a  sin 
gle  thread  of  golden  hair ! 


135 


CHAPTER   IX 

PHILIP   TAKES   UP   THF   TRAIL 

THE  letter — the  flowers — that  one  shining 
golden  hair,  wound  in  a  glistening  thread 
about  their  shriveled  stems,  seemed  for  a  short 
space  to  lift  Philip  Steele  from  out  of  the 
world  he  was  in,  to  another  in  which  his  mind 
was  only  vaguely  conscious,  stunned  by  this 
letter  that  had  come  with  the  unexpectedness 
of  a  thunderbolt  to  change,  in  a  single  instant, 
every  current  of  life  in  his  body.  For  a  few 
moments  he  made  no  effort  to  grasp  the  indi 
vidual  significance  of  the  letter,  the  flowers, 
the  golden  hair.  One  thought  filled  his  brain — 
one  great,  overpowering  truth,  which  excluded 
everything  else — and  this  was  the  realization 
that  the  woman  he  loved  was  not  Colonel 
Becker's  wife.  She  was  free.  And  for  him — 
136 


PHILIP   TAKES   UP   THE   TRAIL 

Philip  Steele — there  was  hope — hope —  Sud 
denly  it  dawned  upon  him  what  the  flowers 
meant.  The  colonel  had  written  the  letter,  and 
Isobel  had  sent  the  faded  violets,  with  their 
golden  thread.  It  was  her  message  to  him — a 
message  without  words,  and  yet  with  a  deeper 
meaning  for  him  than  words  could  have  ex 
pressed.  In  a  flood  there  rushed  back  upon  him 
all  the  old  visions  which  he  had  fought  against, 
and  he  saw  her  again  in  the  glow  of  the  camp- 
fire,  and  on  the  trail,  glorious  in  her  beauty,  his 
ideal  of  all  that  a  woman  should  be. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  locked  his  door,  fear 
ing  that  some  one  might  enter.  He  wanted  to 
be  alone,  to  realize  fully  what  had  happened,  to 
regain  control  of  his  emotions.  If  Isobel 
Becker  had  merely  written  him  a  line  or  two,  a 
note  exculpating  herself  of  what  her  father 
had  already  explained  away,  he  would  still  have 
thought  that  a  world  lay  between  them.  But, 
in  place  of  that,  she  had  sent  him  the  faded 
flowers,  with  their  golden  thread ! 

137 


PHILIP   STEELE 

For  many  minutes  he  paced  back  and  forth 
across  his  narrow  room,  and  never  had  a  room 
looked  more  like  a  prison  cell  to  him  than  this 
one  did  now.  He  was  filled  with  but  one  im 
pulse,  and  that  was  to  return  to  Lac  Bain,  to 
humble  himself  at  the  feet  of  the  woman  he 
loved,  and  ask  her  forgiveness  for  the  heinous 
thing  he  had  done.  He  wanted  to  tell  her  that 
he  had  driven  Bucky  Nome  into  outlawry,  that 
he  had  fought  for  her,  and  run  away  himself — 
because  he  loved  her.  It  was  Sergeant  Moody's 
voice,  vibrant  with  the  rasping  unpleasantness 
of  a  file,  that  jarred  him  back  into  his  practical 
self.  He  thrust  the  letter  and  the  flowers  into 
his  breast  pocket,  and  opened  the  door. 

Moody  came  in. 

"What  in  blazes  are  you  locked  up  for?"  he 
demanded,  his  keen  little  eyes  scrutinizing 
Philip's  feverish  face.  "Afraid  somebody'll 
walk  in  and  steal  you,  Phil  ?" 

"Headache,"  said  Philip,  putting  a  hand  to 
his  head.  "One  of  the  kind  that  makes  you 

138 


PHILIP   TAKES   UP   THE   TRAIL 

think  your  brain  must  be  a  hard  ball  bumping 
around  inside  your  skull." 

The  sergeant  laid  his  hand  on  Philip's  arm. 

"Go  take  a  walk,  Phil,"  he  said,  in  a  softer 
voice.  "It  will  do  you  good.  I  just  came  in  to 
tell  you  the  news.  They've  got  track  of  DeBar 
again,  up  near  Lac  la  Biche.  But  we  can  talk 
about  that  later.  Go  take  a  walk.'* 

"Thanks  for  the  suggestion,"  said  Philip.  "I 
believe  I'll  do  it." 

He  passed  beyond  the  barracks,  and  hit  the 
sleigh-worn  road  that  led  out  of  town,  walking 
faster  and  faster,  as  his  brain  began  working. 
He  would  return  to  Lac  Bain.  That  was  set 
tled  in  his  mind  without  argument.  Nothing 
could  hold  him  back  after  what  he  had  received 
that  afternoon.  If  the  letter  and  the  violet 
message  had  come  to  him  from  the  end  of  the 
earth  it  would  have  made  no  difference ;  his  de 
termination  would  have  been  the  same.  He 
would  return  to  Lac  Bain — but  how?  That 
was  the  question  which  puzzled  him.  He  still 
139 


PHILIP    STEELE 

had  thirteen  months  of  service  ahead  of  him. 
He  was  not  in  line  for  a  furlough.  It  would 
take  at  least  three  months  of  official  red  tape  to 
purchase  his  discharge.  These  facts  rose  like 
barriers  in  his  way.  It  occurred  to  him  that  he 
might  confide  in  MacGregor,  and  that  the  in 
spector  would  make  an  opportunity  for  him  to 
return  into  the  north  immediately.  MacGregor 
had  the  power  to  do  that,  and  he  believed  that 
he  would  do  it.  But  he  hesitated  to  accept  this 
last  alternative. 

And  then,  all  at  once,  Sergeant  Moody's 
words  came  back  to  him — "They've  got  track 
of  DeBar  again,  up  near  Lac  la  Biche."  The 
idea  that  burst  upon  him  with  the  recalling  of 
those  words  stopped  Philip  suddenly,  and  he 
turned  back  toward  the  barracks.  He  had 
heard  a  great  deal  about  DeBar,  the  cleverest 
criminal  in  all  the  northland,  and  whom  no 
man  or  combination  of  men  had  been  clever 
enough  to  catch.  And  now  this  man  was  near 
Lac  la  Biche,  in  the  Churchill  and  Lac  Bain 
140 


PHILIP    TAKES    UP    THE   TRAIL 

country.  If  he  could  get  permission  from  Mac- 
Gregor  to  go  after  DeBar  his  own  difficulty 
would  be  settled  in  the  easiest  possible  way. 
The  assignment  would  take  him  for  a  long  and 
indefinite  time  into  the  north.  It  would  take 
him  back  to  Isobel  Becker. 

He  went  immediately  to  his  room  upon 
reaching  the  barracks,  and  wrote  out  his  re 
quest  to  MacGregor.  He  sent  it  over  to  head 
quarters  by  a  rookie.  After  that  he  waited. 

Not  until  the  following  morning  did  Moody 
bring  him  a  summons  to  appear  in  MacGregor's 
office.  Five  minutes  later  the  inspector  greeted 
him  with  outstretched  hand,  gave  him  a  grip 
that  made  his  fingers  snap,  and  locked  the  office 
door.  He  was  holding  Philip's  communication 
when  the  young  man  entered. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  this,  Steele," 
he  began,  seating  himself  at  his  desk  and  mo 
tioning  Philip  to  a  chair.  "To  be  frank  with 
you,  this  proposition  of  yours  is  entirely 
against  my  best  judgment." 
141 


PHILIP    STEELE 

"In  other  words,  you  haven't  sufficient  confi 
dence  in  me,"  added  Philip. 

"No,  I  don't  mean  that.  There  isn't  a  man 
Dn  the  force  in  whom  I  have  greater  confidence 
than  you.  But,  if  I  was  to  gamble,  I'd  wager 
ten  to  one  that  you'd  lose  out  if  I  sent  you  up  to 
take  this  man  DeBar." 

"I'll  accept  that  wager — only  reverse  the 
odds,"  said  Philip  daringly. 

The  inspector  twisted  one  of  his  long  red 
mustaches  and  smiled  a  little  grimly  at  the 
other. 

"If  I  were  to  follow  my  own  judgment  I'd 
not  send  one  man,  but  two,"  he  went  on.  "I 
don't  mean  to  underestimate  the  value  of  my 
men  when  I  say  that  our  friend  DeBar,  who 
has  evaded  us  for  years,  is  equal  to  any  two 
men  I've  got.  I  wouldn't  care  to  go  after  him 
.nyself — alone.  I'd  want  another  hand  with 
me,  and  a  mighty  good  one — a  man  who  was 
cool,  cautious,  and  who  knew  all  of  the  ins  and 
outs  of  the  game  as  well  as  myself.  And 
142 


PHILIP   TAKES   UP   THE   TRAIL 

here — "  He  interrupted  himself,  and  chuckled 
audibly,  "here  you  are  asking  permission  to  go 
after  him  alone!  Why,  man,  it's  the  very  next 
thing  to  inviting  yourself  to  commit  suicide! 
Now,  if  I  were  to  send  you,  and  along  with  you 
a  good,  level-headed  man  like  Moody — " 

"I  have  had  enough  of  double-harness  work, 
unless  I  am  commanded  to  go,  Mr.  Mac- 
Gregor,"  interrupted  Philip.  "I  realize  that 
DeBar  is  a  dangerous  man,  but  I  believe  that  I 
can  bring  him  down.  Will  you  give  me  the 
opportunity?" 

MacGregor  laid  his  cigar  on  the  edge  of  the 
desk  and  leaned  across  toward  his  companion, 
the  long  white  ringers  of  his  big  hands  clasped 
in  front  of  him.  He  always  took  this  position, 
with  a  cigar  smoldering  beside  him,  when  about 
to  say  those  things  which  he  wished  to  be  in 
delibly  impressed  on  the  memory  of  his  lis 
tener. 

"Yes,  I'm  going  to  give  you  the  opportunty," 
he  said  slowlv.  "and  I  am  also  going  to  give 


PHILIP    STEELE 

you  permission  to  change  your  mind  after  I 
have  told  you  something  about  DeBar,  whom 
we  know  as  the  Seventh  Brother.  I  repeat 
that,  if  you  go  alone,  it's  just  ten  to  one  that 
you  don't  get  him.  Since  '99  four  men  have 
gone  out  after  him,  and  none  has  come  back. 
There  was  Forbes,  who  went  in  that  year; 
Bannock,  who  took  up  the  trial  in  1902 ;  Fleish- 
am  in  1904,  and  Gresham  in  1907.  Since  the 
time  of  Gresham's  disappearance  we  have  lost 
sight  of  DeBar,  and  only  recently,  as  you 
know,  have  we  got  trace  of  him  again.  He  is 
somewhere  up  on  the  edge  of  the  Barren 
Lands.  I  have  private  information  which  leads 
me  to  believe  that  the  factor  at  Fond  du  Lac 
can  take  you  directly  to  him." 

MacGregor  unclasped  his  hands  to  pick  up  a 
worn  paper  from  a  small  pile  on  the  desk. 

"He  is  the  last  of  seven  brothers,"  he  added. 
"His  father  was  hanged." 

"A  good  beginning,"  interjected  Philip. 

"There's  just  the  trouble,"  said  the  inspector 
144 


PHILIP    TAKES    UP    THE   TRAIL 

quickly.  "It  wasn't  a  good  beginning.  This  is 
one  of  those  peculiar  cases  of  outlawry  for 
which  the  law  itself  is  largely  responsible,  and 
I  don't  know  of  any  one  I  would  say  this  to  but 
you.  The  father  was  hanged,  as  I  have  said. 
Six  months  later  it  was  discovered,  beyond  a 
doubt,  that  the  law  had  taken  the  life  of  an  in 
nocent  man,  and  that  DeBar  had  been  sent  to 
the  gallows  by  a  combination  of  evidence  fabri 
cated  entirely  by  the  perjury  of  enemies.  The 
law  should  have  vindicated  itself.  But  it  didn't. 
Two  of  those  who  had  plotted  against  DeBar 
were  arrested,  tried — and  acquitted,  a  fact 
which  goes  to  prove  the  statement  of  a  certain 
great  man  that  half  of  the  time  law  is  not  jus 
tice.  There  is  no  need  of  going  into  greater 
detail  about  the  trials  and  the  popular  senti 
ment  afterward.  In  December  of  '96  DeBar's 
seven  sons  took  justice  into  their  own  hands. 
In  one  night  they  killed  the  three  men  chiefly 
instrumental  in  sending  their  father  to  his 
death,  and  fled  into  the  North." 

145 


PHILIP    STEELE 

"Good !"  exclaimed  Philip. 

The  word  shot  from  him  before  he  had 
thought.  At  first  he  flushed,  then  sat  bolt  up 
right  and  smiled  frankly  into  the  inspector's 
face  as  he  watched  the  effect  of  his  indiscretion. 

"So  many  people  thought  at  the  time,"  said 
MacGregor,  eying  him  with  curious  sharpness. 
"Especially  the  women.  For  that  reason  the 
first  three  who  were  caught  were  merely  con 
victed  of  manslaughter  instead  of  murder. 
They  served  their  sentences,  were  given  two 
years  each  for  good  behavior,  and  are  some 
where  in  South  America.  The  fourth  killed 
himself  when  he  was  taken  near  Moose  Fac 
tory,  and  the  other  three  went  what  the  law 
calls  'bad.'  Henry,  the  oldest  of  them  all, 
killed  the  officer  who  was  bringing  him  down 
from  Prince  Albert  in  '99,  and  was  afterward 
executed.  Paul,  the  sixth,  returned  to  his  na 
tive  town  seven  years  after  the  hanging  of  his 
father  and  was  captured  after  wounding  two 
146 


PHILIP    TAKES    UP   THE   TRAIL 

of  the  officers  who  went  in  pursuit  of  him.  He 
is  now  in  an  insane  asylum." 

The  inspector  paused,  and  ran  his  eyes  over  a 
fresh  slip  of  paper. 

"And  all  this,"  said  Philip  in  a  low  voice, 
"because  of  a  crime  committed  by  the  law 
itself.  Five  men  hung,  one  a  suicide,  three  in 
prison  and  one  in  an  insane  asylum — because 
of  a  blunder  of  the  law !" 

"The  king  can  do  no  wrong,"  said  Mac- 
Gregor  with  gentle  irony,  "and  neither  can  the 
law.  Remember  that,  Philip,  as  long  as  you 
are  in  the  service.  The  law  may  break  up 
homes,  ruin  states,  set  itself  a  Nemesis  on  inno 
cent  men's  heels — but  it  can  do  no  wrong.  It 
is  the  Juggernaut  before  which  we  all  must  bow 
our  heads,  even  you  and  I,  and  when  by  any 
chance  it  makes  a  mistake,  it  is  still  law,  and 
unassailable.  It  is  the  greatest  weapon  of  the 
clever  and  the  rich,  so  it  bears  a  moral.  Be 
clever,  or  be  rich." 

147 


PHILIP    STEELE 

"And  William  DeBar,  the  seventh  broth 
er — "  began  Philip. 

"Is  tremendously  clever,  but  not  rich,"  fin 
ished  the  inspector.  "He  has  caused  us  more 
trouble  than  any  other  man  in  Canada.  He  is 
the  youngest  of  the  seven  brothers,  and  you 
know  there  are  curious  superstitions  about  sev 
enth  brothers.  In  the  first  pursuit  after  the 
private  hanging  he  shot  two  men.  He  killed  a 
third  in  an  attempt  to  save  his  brother  at  Moose 
Factory.  Since  then,  Forbes,  Bannock,  Fleish- 
am  and  Gresham  have  disappeared,  and  they 
all  went  out  after  him.  They  were  all  good 
men,  powerful  physically,  skilled  in  the  ways  of 
the  wilderness,  and  as  brave  as  tigers.  Yet 
they  all  failed.  And  not  only  that,  they  lost 
their  lives.  Whether  DeBar  killed  them,  or  led 
them  on  to  a  death  for  which  his  hands  were 
not  directly  responsible,  we  have  never  known. 
The  fact  remains  that  they  went  out  after  De 
Bar — and  died.  I  am  not  superstitious,  but  I 
am  beginning  to  think  that  DeBar  is  more  than 
148 


PHILIP   TAKES   UP   THE   TRAIL 

a  match  for  any  one  man.  What  do  you  say  ? 
Will  you  go  with  Moody,  or — " 

"I'll  go  alone,  with  your  permission,"  said 
Philip. 

The  inspector's  voice  at  once  fell  into  its  for 
mal  tone  of  command. 

"Then  you  may  prepare  to  leave  at  once,"  he 
said.  "The  factor  at  Fond  du  Lac  will  put  you 
next  to  your  man.  Whatever  else  you  require 
I  will  give  you  in  writing  some  time  to-day." 

Philip  accepted  this  as  signifying  that  the  in 
terview  was  at  an  end,  and  rose  from  his  seat. 

That  night  he  added  a  postscript  to  the  letter 
which  he  had  written  home,  saying  that  for  a 
long  time  he  would  not  be  heard  from  again. 
The  midnight  train  was  bearing  him  toward 
Le  Pas. 


149 


CHAPTER    X 
ISOBEL'S  DISAPPEARANCE 

FOUR  hundred  miles  as  an  arrow  might 
fly,  five  hundred  by  snowshoes  and  dog- 
sledge  ;  up  the  Pelican  Lake  waterway,  straight 
north  along  the  edge  of  the  Geikie  Barrens,  and 
from  Wollaston  westward,  Philip  hurried — not 
toward  the  hiding  place  of  William  DeBar,  but 
toward  Lac  Bain. 

A  sledge  and  six  dogs  with  a  half-breed 
driver  took  him  from  Le  Pas  as  far  as  the 
Churchill;  with  two  Crees,  on  snow-shoes,  he 
struck  into  the  Reindeer  country,  and  two 
weeks  later  bought  a  sledge  and  three  dogs  at 
an  Indian  camp  on  the  Waterfound.  On  the 
second  day,  in  the  barrens  to  the  west,  one  of 
the  dogs  slit  his  foot  on  a  piece  of  ice ;  on  the 
third  day  the  two  remaining  dogs  went  lame, 
150 


ISOBEL'S    DISAPPEARANCE 

and  Philip  and  his  guide  struck  camp  at  the 
headwater  of  the  Gray  Beaver,  sixty  miles 
from  Lac  Bain.  It  was  impossible  for  the  dogs 
to  move  the  following  day,  so  Philip  left  his 
Indian  to  bring  them  in  later  and  struck  out 
alone. 

That  day  he  traveled  nearly  thirty  miles, 
over  a  country  broken  by  timbered  ridges,  and 
toward  evening  came  to  the  beginning  of  the 
open  country  that  lay  between  him  and  the  for 
ests  about  Lac  Bain.  It  had  been  a  hard  day's 
travel,  but  he  did  not  feel  exhausted.  The  full 
moon  was  rising  at  nine  o'clock,  and  Philip 
rested  for  two  hours,  cooking  and  eating  his 
supper,  and  then  resumed  his  journey,  deter 
mined  to  make  sufficient  progress  before  camp 
ing  to  enable  him  to  reach  the  post  by  the 
following  noon.  It  was  midnight  when  he  put 
up  his  light  tent,  built  a  fire,  and  went  to  sleep. 
He  was  up  again  at  dawn.  At  two  o'clock  he 
came  into  the  clearing  about  Lac  Bain.  As  he 
hurried  to  Breed's  quarters  he  wondered  if 


PHILIP    STEELE 

Colonel  Becker  or  Isobel  had  seen  him  from 
their  window.  He  had  noticed  that  the  curtain 
was  up,  and  that  a  thin  spiral  of  smoke  was 
rising  from  the  clay  chimney  that  descended  to 
the  fireplace  in  their  room. 

He  found  Breed,  the  factor,  poring  over  one 
of  the  ledgers  which  he  and  Colonel  Becker  had 
examined.  He  started  to  his  feet  when  he  saw 
Philip. 

"Where  in  the  name  of  blazes  have  you 
been?"  were  his  first  words,  as  he  held  out  a 
hand.  "I've  been  hunting  the  country  over  for 
you,  and  had  about  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
you  and  Bucky  Nome  were  dead." 

"Hunting  forme,"  said  Philip.  "What  for?" 

Breed  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"The  colonel  an' — Miss  Isobel,"  he  said. 
"They  wanted  to  see  you  so  bad  that  I  had  men 
out  for  three  days  after  you'd  gone  looking  for 
you.  Couldn't  even  find  your  trail.  I'm  curi 
ous  to  know  what  was  up." 

Philip  laughed.  He  felt  a  tingling  joy  run- 
152 


ISOBEL'S   DISAPPEARANCE 

ning  through  every  vein  in  his  body.  It  was 
difficult  for  him  to  repress  the  trembling  eager 
ness  in  his  voice,  as  he  said :  "Well,  I'm  here. 
I  wonder  if  they  want  to  see  me — now." 

"Suppose  they  do,"  replied  Breed,  slowly 
lighting  his  pipe.  "But  you've  hung  off  too 
long.  They're  gone." 

"Gone?"    Philip  stared  at  the  factor. 

"Gone  ?"  he  demanded  again. 

"Left  this  morning — for  Churchill,"  af 
firmed  Breed.  "Two  sledges,  two  Indians,  the 
colonel  and  Miss  Isobel." 

For  a  few  moments  Philip  stood  in  silence, 
staring  straight  out  through  the  one  window  of 
the  room  with  his  back  to  the  factor. 

"Did  they  leave  any  word  for  me  ?"  he  asked. 

"No." 

"Then — I  must  follow  them!"  He  spoke  the 
words  more  to  himself  than  to  Breed.  The 
factor  regarded  him  in  undisguised  astonish 
ment  and  Philip,  turning  toward  him,  hastened 
to  add :  "I  can't  tell  you  why,  Breed — but  it's 
153 


PHILIP    STEELE 

necessary  that  I  overtake  them  as  soon  as  pos 
sible.  I  don't  want  to  lose  a  day — not  an  hour. 
Can  you  lend  me  a  team  and  a  driver  ?" 

"I've  got  a  scrub  team,"  said  Breed,  "but 
there  isn't  another  man  that  I  can  spare  from 
the  post.  There's  LeCroix,  ten  miles  to  the 
west.  If  you  can  wait  until  to-morrow — " 

"I  must  follow  this  afternoon — now,"  in 
terrupted  Philip.  "They  will  have  left  a  clean 
trail  behind,  and  I  can  overtake  them  some 
time  to-morrow.  Will  you  have  the  team  made 
ready  for  me — a  light  sledge,  if  you've  got  it." 

By  three  o'clock  he  was  on  the  trail  again. 
Breed  had  spoken  truthfully  when  he  said  that 
his  dogs  were  scrubs.  There  were  four  of 
them,  two  mongrels,  one  blind  huskie,  and  a 
mamelute  that  ran  lame.  And  besides  this 
handicap,  Philip  found  that  his  own  endurance 
was  fast  reaching  the  ebbing  point.  He  had 
traveled  sixty  miles  in  a  day  and  a  half,  and 
his  legs  and  back  began  to  show  signs  of  the 
strain.  In  spite  of  this  fact,  his  spirits  rose 
154 


ISOBEL'S    DISAPPEARANCE 

with  every  mile  he  placed  behind  him.  He 
knew  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  Isobel  and 
her  father  to  stand  the  hardship  of  fast  and. 
continued  travel.  At  the  most  they  would  not 
make  more  than  twenty  miles  in  a  day,  and 
even  with  his  scrub  team  he  could  make  thirty, 
and  would  probably  overtake  them  at  the  end 
of  the  next  day.  And  then  it  occurred  to  him, 
with  a  pleasurable  thrill,  that  to  find  Isobel 
again  on  the  trail,  as  he  had  first  seen  her, 
would  be  a  hundred  times  better  than  finding 
her  at  Lac  Bain.  He  would  accompany  her 
and  the  colonel  to  Churchill.  They  would  be 
together  for  days,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time — 
He  laughed  low  and  joyously,  and  for  a 
spell  he  urged  the  dogs  into  a  swifter  pace. 
That  he  had  correctly  estimated  the  speed  of 
those  ahead  of  him  he  was  convinced,  when, 
two  hours  later,  he  came  upon  the  remains  of 
their  mid-day  camp-fire,  nine  or  ten  miles  from 
Lac  Bain.  It  was  dark  when  he  reached  this 
point.  There  were  glowing  embers  still  in  the 

155 


PHILIP    STEELE 

fire,  and  these  he  stirred  into  life,  adding  arm- 
fuls  of  dry  wood  to  the  flames.  About  him  in 
the  snow  he  found  the  prints  of  Isobel's  little 
feet,  and  in  the  flood  of  joy  and  hope  that  was 
sweeping  more  and  more  into  his  life  he  sang 
and  whistled,  and  forgot  that  he  was  alone  in 
a  desolation  of  blackness  that  made  even  the 
dogs  slink  nearer  to  the  fire.  He  would  camp 
here — where  Isobel  had  been  only  a  few  hours 
before.  If  he  traveled  hard  he  would  overtake 
them  by  the  next  noon. 

But  he  had  underestimated  his  own  exhaus 
tion.  After  he  had  put  up  his  tent  before  the 
fire  he  made  himself  a  bed  of  balsam  boughs 
and  fell  into  a  deep  sleep,  from  which  neither 
dawn  nor  the  restless  movements  of  the  dogs 
could  awaken  him.  When  at  last  he  opened 
his  eyes  it  was  broad  day.  He  jumped  to  his 
feet  and  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  nine 
y  clock,  and  after  ten  before  he  again  took  up 
(he  pursuit  of  the  two  sledges.  Not  until  sev 
eral  hours  later  did  he  give  up  hope  of  overtak- 
I.S6 


ISOBEL'S    DISAPPEARANCE 

ing  Isobel  and  her  father  as  he  had  planned, 
and  he  reproved  himself  roundly  for  having 
overslept.  The  afternoon  was  half  gone  be 
fore  he  struck  their  camp  of  the  preceding 
evening,  and  he  knew  that,  because  of  his  own 
loss  of  time,  Isobel  was  still  as  far  ahead  of 
him  as  when  he  had  left  Lac  Bain. 

He  made  up  some  of  this  time  by  following 
the  trail  for  an  hour  when  the  moon  was  at 
its  highest,  and  then  pitched  his  tent.  He  was 
up  again  the  next  morning  and  breaking  camp 
before  it  was  light.  Scarcely  had  he  traveled 
an  hour  over  the  clear-cut  trail  ahead  of  him 
when  he  suddenly  halted  his  dogs  with  a  loud 
cry  of  command  and  astonishment.  In  a  small 
open  the  trails  of  the  two  sledges  separated. 
One  continued  straight  east,  toward  Churchill, 
while  the  other  turned  almost  at  right  angles 
into  the  south.  For  a  few  moments  he  could 
find  no  explanation  for  this  occurrence.  Then 
he  decided  that  one  of  the  Indians  had  struck 
southward,  either  to  hunt,  or  on  some  short 

IS" 


PHILIP    STEELE 

mission,  and  that  he  would  join  the  other 
sledge  farther  on.  Convinced  that  this  was 
the  right  solution,  Philip  continued  over  the 
Churchill  trail.  A  little  later,  to  his  despair,  it 
began  to  snow  so  heavily  that  the  trail  which 
he  was  following  was  quickly  obliterated. 
There  was  but  one  thing  for  him  to  do  now, 
and  that  was  to  hasten  on  to  Fort  Churchill, 
giving  up  all  hope  of  finding  Isobel  and  the 
colonel  before  he  met  them  there. 

Four  days  later  he  came  into  the  post.  The 
news  that  awaited  him  struck  him  dumb.  Iso 
bel  and  her  father,  with  one  Indian,  had  gone 
with  the  sledge  into  the  South.  The  Indian 
who  had  driven  on  to  Churchill  could  give  no 
further  information,  except  that  he  knew  the 
colonel  and  his  daughter  had  suddenly  changed 
their  minds  about  coming  to  Churchill.  Per 
haps  they  had  gone  to  Nelson  House,  or  York 
Factory — or  even  to  Le  Pas.  He  did  not  know. 

It  was  with  a  heavy  heart  that  Philip  turned 
his  face  once  more  toward  Lac  Bain.  He 
158 


ISOBEL'S    DISAPPEARANCE 

could  not  repress  a  laugh,  bitter  and  filled  with 
disappointment,  as  he  thought  how  fate  was 
playing  against  him.  If  he  had  not  overslept 
he  would  have  caught  up  with  the  sledges  be 
fore  they  separated,  if  he  had  not  forced  him 
self  into  this  assignment  it  was  possible  that 
Isobel  and  her  father  would  have  come  to  him. 
They  knew  that  his  detachment  was  at  Prince 
Albert — and  they  were  going  south.  He  had 
little  doubt  but  that  they  were  striking  for 
Nelson  House,  and  from  Nelson  House  to  civ 
ilization  there  was  but  one  trail,  that  which  led 
to  Le  Pas  and  Etomami.  And  Etomami  was 
but  two  hours  by  rail  from  Prince  Albert. 

He  carried  in  his  breast  pocket  a  bit  of  writ 
ten  information  which  he  had  obtained  from 
the  Churchill  factor — that  helped  to  soften,  in 
a  way,  the  sting  of  his  disappointment.  It  was 
Colonel  Becker's  London  address — and  Iso- 
bel's,  and  he  quickly  laid  out  for  himself  new 
plans  of  action.  He  would  write  to  Mac- 
Gregor  from  Lac  Bain,  asking  him  to  put  in 

159 


PHILIP   STEELE 

at  once  the  necessary  application  for  the  pur 
chase  of  his  release  from  the  service.  As  soon 
as  he  was  free  he  would  go  to  London.  He 
would  call  on  Isobel  like  a  gentleman,  he  told 
himself.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  would  be  the 
better  way. 

But  first,  there  was  DeBar. 

As  he  had  been  feverishly  anxious  to  return 
into  the  North,  so,  now,  he  was  anxious  to 
have  this  affair  with  DeBar  over  with.  He 
lost  no  time  at  Lac  Bain,  writing  his  letter  to 
Inspector  MacGregor  on  the  same  day  that  he 
arrived.  Only  two  of  the  dogs  which  the  In 
dian  had  brought  into  the  post  were  fit  to 
travel,  and  with  these,  and  a  light  sledge  on 
which  he  packed  his  equipment  he  set  off  alone 
for  Fond  du  Lac.  A  week  later  he  reached  the 
post.  He  found  Hutt,  the  factor,  abed  with  a 
sprained  knee,  and  the  only  other  men  at  the 
post  were  three  Chippewayans,  who  could 
neither  talk  nor  understand  English. 

"DeBar  is  gone,"  groaned  Hutt,  after 
160 


ISOBEL'S    DISAPPEARANCE 

Philip  had  made  himself  known.  "A  rascal  of 
a  Frenchman  came  in  last  night  on  his  way 
to  the  Grand  Rapid,  and  this  morning  DeBar 
was  missing.  I  had  the  Chippewayans  in,  and 
they  say  he  left  early  in  the  night  with  his 
sledge  and  one  big  bull  of  a  hound  that  he 
hangs  to  like  grim  death.  I'd  kill  that  damned 
Indian  you  came  up  with.  I  believe  it  was  he 
that  told  the  Frenchman  there  was  an  officer 
on  the  way." 

"Is  the  Frenchman  here?"  asked  Philip. 

"Gone!"  groaned  Hutt  again,  turning  his 
twisted  knee.  "He  left  for  the  Grand  Rapid 
this  morning,  and  there  isn't  another  dog  or 
sledge  at  the  post.  This  winter  has  been  death 
on  the  dogs,  and  what  few  are  left  are  out  on 
the  trap-lines.  DeBar  knows  you're  after  him, 
sure  as  fate,  and  he's  taken  a  trail  toward  the 
Athabasca.  The  best  I  can  do  is  to  let  you 
have  a  Chippewayan  who'll  go  with  you  as  far 
as  the  Chariot.  That's  the  end  of  his  territory, 
and  what  you'll  do  after  that  God  only  knows." 
161 


PHILIP    STEELE 

"111  take  the  chance,"  said  Philip.  "We'll 
start  after  dinner.  I've  got  two  dogs,  a  little 
lame,  but  even  at  that  they'll  have  DeBarV 
outfit  handicapped." 

It  was  less  than  two  hours  later  when  Philip 
and  the  Chippewayan  set  off  into  the  western 
forests,  the  Indian  ahead  and  Philip  behind, 
with  the  dogs  and  sledge  between  them.  Both 
men  were  traveling  light.  Philip  had  even 
strapped  his  carbine  and  small  emergency  bag 
to  the  toboggan,  and  carried  only  his  service 
revolver  at  his  belt.  It  was  one  o'clock  and 
the  last  slanting  beams  of  the  winter  sun,  heat- 
less  and  only  cheering  to  the  eye,  were  fast 
dying  away  before  the  first  dull  gray  approach 
of  desolate  gloom  which  precedes  for  a  few 
hours  the  northern  night.  As  the  black  forest 
grew  more  and  more  somber  about  them,  he 
looked  over  the  grayish  yellow  back  of  the 
tugging  huskies  at  the  silent  Indian  striding 
over  the  outlaw's  trail,  and  a  slight  shiver 
passed  through  him,  a  shiver  that  was  nei- 
162 


ISOBEL'S    DISAPPEARANCE 

ther  of  cold  nor  fear,  yet  which  was  accom 
panied  by  an  oppression  which  it  was  hard 
for  him  to  shake  off.  Deep  down  in  his 
heart  Philip  had  painted  a  picture  of  William 
DeBar — of  the  man — and  it  was  a  picture  to 
his  liking.  Such  men  he  would  like  to  know 
and  to  call  his  friends.  But  now  the  deepening 
gloom,  the  darkening  of  the  sky  above,  the 
gray  picture  ahead  of  him — the  Chippewayan, 
as  silent  as  the  trees,  the  dogs  pulling  noise 
lessly  in  their  traces  like  slinking  shadows,  the 
ghost-like  desolation  about  him,  all  recalled 
him  to  that  other  factor  in  the  game,  who  was 
DeBar  the  outlaw,  and  not  DeBar  the  man. 
In  this  same  way,  he  imagined,  Forbes,  Ban 
nock,  Fleisham  and  Gresham  had  begun  the 
game,  and  they  had  lost.  Perhaps  they,  too, 
had  gone  out  weakened  by  visions  of  the  equity 
of  things,  for  the  sympathy  of  man  for  man  is 
strong  when  they  meet  above  the  sixtieth. 

DeBar  was  ahead  of  him — DeBar  the  out 
law,  watching  and  scheming  as  he  had  watched 
163 


PHILIP    STEELE 

and  schemed  when  the  other  four  had  played 
against  him.  The  game  had  grown  old  to  him. 
It  had  brought  him  victim  after  victim,  and 
each  victim  had  made  of  him  a  more  deadly 
enemy  of  the  next.  Perhaps  at  this  moment  he 
was  not  very  far  ahead,  waiting  to  send  him  the 
way  of  the  others.  The  thought  urged  new 
fire  into  Philip's  blood.  He  spurted  past  the 
dogs  and  stopped  the  Chippewayan,  and  then 
examined  the  trail.  It  was  old.  The  frost  had 
hardened  in  the  huge  footprints  of  DeBar's 
big  hound ;  it  had  built  a  webby  film  over  thf 
square  impressions  of  his  snow-shoj  thongs. 
But  what  of  that?  Might  not  the  trail  still  be 
old,  and  DeBar  a  few  hundred  yards  ahead  of 
him,  waiting — watching? 

He  went  back  to  the  sledge  and  unstrapped 
his  carbine.    In  a  moment  the  first  picture,  the 
first  sympathy,  was  gone.    It  was  not  the  law 
which  DeBar  was  fighting  now.    It  was  him 
self.    He  walked  ahead  of  the  Indian,  alert 
listening  and   prepared.    The  crackling  of  a 
164 


ISOBEL'S    DISAPPEARANCE 

frost-bitten  tree  startled  him  into  stopping;  the 
snapping  of  a  twig  under  its  weight  of  ice  and 
snow  sent  strange  thrills  through  him  which 
left  him  almost  sweating.  The  sounds  were 
repeated  again  and  again  as  they  advanced,  un 
til  he  became  accustomed  to  them.  Yet  at  each 
new  sound  his  fingers  gripped  tighter  about  his 
carbine  and  his  heart  beat  a  little  faster.  Once 
or  twice  he  spoke  to  the  Indian,  who  under 
stood  no  word  he  said  and  remained  silent. 
They  built  a  fire  and  cooked  their  supper  when 
it  grew  too  dark  to  travel. 

Later,  when  it  became  lighter,  they  went  on 
hour  after  hour,  through  the  night.  At  dawn 
the  trail  was  still  old.  There  were  the  same 
cobwebs  of  frost,  the  same  signs  to  show  that 
DeBar  and  his  Mackenzie  hound  had  pre 
ceded  them  a  long  time  before.  During  the 
next  day  and  night  they  spent  sixteen  hours  on 
their  snow-shoes  and  the  lacework  of  frost  in 
DeBar's  trail  grew  thinner.  The  next  day 
they  traveled  fourteen  and  the  next  twelve, 
165 


PHILIP    STEELE 

and  there  was  no  lace  work  of  frost  at  all 
There  were  hot  coals  under  the  ashes  of  De- 
Bar's  fires.  The  crumbs  of  his  bannock  were 
soft.  The  toes  of  his  Mackenzie  hound  left 
warm,  sharp  imprints.  It  was  then  that  they 
came  to  the  frozen  water  of  the  Chariot.  The 
Chippewayan  turned  back  to  Fond  du  Lac,  and 
Philip  went  on  alone,  the  two  dogs  limping  be 
hind  him  with  his  outfit. 

It  was  still  early  in  the  day  when  Philip 
crossed  the  river  into  the  barrens  and  with 
each  step  now  his  pulse  beat  faster.  DeBar 
could  not  be  far  ahead  of  him.  He  was  sure 
of  that.  Very  soon  he  must  overtake  him. 
And  then — there  would  be  a  fight.  In  the 
tense  minutes  that  followed,  the  vision  of  Iso- 
bel's  beautiful  face  grew  less  and  less  distinct 
in  his  mind.  It  was  filled  with  something  more 
grim,  something  that  tightened  his  muscles, 
kept  him  ceaselessly  alert.  He  would  come  on 
DeBar — and  there  would  be  a  fight.  DeBar 
would  not  be  taken  by  surprise. 
166 


ISOBEL'S    DISAPPEARANCE 

At  noon  he  halted  and  built  a  small  fire  be 
tween  two  rocks,  over  which  he  boiled  some  tea 
and  warmed  his  meat.  Each  day  he  had  built 
three  fires,  but  at  the  end  of  this  day,  wher 
darkness  stopped  him  again,  it  occurred  to  him 
that  since  that  morning  DeBar  had  built  but 
one.  Gray  dawn  had  scarcely  broken  when  he 
again  took  up  the  pursuit.  It  was  bitterly  cold, 
and  a  biting  wind  swept  down  across  the  bar 
rens  from  the  Arctic  icebergs.  His  pocket  ther 
mometer  registered  sixty  degrees  below  zero 
when  he  left  it  open  on  the  sledge,  and  six 
times  between  dawn  and  dusk  he  built  himself 
fires.  Again  DeBar  built  but  one,  and  this  time 
he  found  no  bannock  crumbs. 

For  the  last  twenty  miles  DeBar  had  gone 
straight  into  the  North.  He  continued  straight 
into  the  North  the  next  day  and  several  time^s 
Philip  scrutinized  his  map,  which  told  him  in 
that  direction  there  lay  nothing  but  peopleless 
barrens  as  far  as  the  Great  Slave. 

There  was  growing  in  him  now  a  fear — a 
167 


PHILIP    STEELE 

fear  that  DeBar  would  beat  him  out  in  the 
race.  His  limbs  began  to  ache  with  a  strange 
pain  and  his  progress  was  becoming  slower.  At 
intervals  he  stopped  to  rest,  and  after  each  of 
these  intervals  the  pain  seemed  to  gnaw  deeper 
at  his  bones,  forcing  him  to  limp,  as  the  dogs 
were  limping  behind  him.  He  had  felt  it  once 
before,  beyond  Lac  Bain,  and  knew  what  it 
meant.  His  legs  were  giving  out — and  DeBar 
would  beat  him  yet!  The  thought  stirred  him 
on,  and  before  he  stopped  again  he  came  to 
the  edge  of  a  little  lake.  DeBar  had  started 
to  cross  the  lake,  and  then,  changing  his  mind, 
had  turned  back  and  skirted  the  edge  of  it. 
Philip  followed  the  outlaw's  trail  with  his  eyes 
and  saw  that  he  could  strike  it  again  and  save 
distance  by  crossing  the  snow-covered  ice. 

He  went  on,  with  dogs  and  sledge  at  his 
heels,  unconscious  of  the  warning  under 
foot  that  had  turned  DeBar  back.  In  mid- 
lake  he  turned  to  urge  the  dogs  into  a  faster 
pace,  and  it  was  then  that  he  heard  under  him 
168 


ISOBEL'S    DISAPPEARANCE 

a  hollow,  trembling  sound,  growing  in  volume 
even  as  he  hesitated,  until  it  surged  in  under 
his  feet  from  every  shore,  like  the  rolling 
thunder  of  a  ten-pin  ball.  With  a  loud  cry  to 
the  dogs  he  darted  forward,  but  it  was  too  late. 
Behind  him  the  ice  crashed  like  brittle  glass 
and  he  saw  sledge  and  dogs  disappear  as  if 
into  an  abyss.  In  an  instant  he  had  begun  a 
mad  race  to  the  shore  a  hundred  feet  ahead  of 
him.  Ten  paces  more  and  he  would  have 
reached  it,  when  the  toe  of  his  snow-shoe 
caught  in  a  hummock  of  snow  and  ice.  For  a 
flash  it  stopped  him,  and  the  moment's  pause 
was  fatal.  Before  he  could  throw  himself  for 
ward  on  his  face  in  a  last  effort  to  save  himself, 
the  ice  gave  way  and  he  plunged  through.  In 
his  extremity  he  thought  of  DeBar,  of  possible 
help  even  from  the  outlaw,  and  a  terrible  cry 
for  that  help  burst  from  his  lips  as  he  felt  him 
self  going.  The  next  instant  he  was  sorry  that 
he  had  shouted.  He  was  to  his  waist  in  water, 
but  his  feet  were  on  bottom.  He  saw  now 
169 


PHILIP   STEELE 

what  had  happened,  that  the  surface  of  the 
water  was  a  foot  below  the  shell  of  ice,  which 
was  scarcely  more  than  an  inch  in  thickness. 
It  was  not  difficult  for  him  to  kick  off  hi? 
mow-shoes  under  the  water,  and  he  began 
breaking  his  way  ashore. 

Five  minutes  later  he  dragged  himself  out, 
stiff  with  the  cold,  his  drenched  clothing  freez 
ing  as  it  came  into  contact  with  the  air.  His 
first  thought  was  of  fire,  and  he  ran  up  the 
shore,  his  teeth  chattering,  and  began  tearing 
off  handfuls  of  bark  from  a  birch.  Not  until 
he  was  done  and  the  bark  was  piled  in  a  heap 
beside  the  tree  did  the  full  horror  of  his  situa 
tion  dawn  upon  him.  His  emergency  pouch 
was  on  the  sledge,  and  in  that  pouch  was  his 
waterproof  box  of  matches! 

He  ran  back  to  the  edge  of  broken  ice,  un 
conscious  that  he  was  almost  sobbing  in  his 
despair.  There  was  no  sign  of  the  sledge,  no 
sound  of  the  dogs,  who  might  still  be  strug 
gling  in  their  traces.  They  were  gone — every' 
170 


ISOBEL'S    DISAPPEARANCE 

thing — food,  fire,  life  itself.  He  dug  out  his 
flint  and  steel  from  the  bottom  of  a  stiffening 
pocket  and  knelt  beside  the  bark,  striking  them 
again  and  again,  yet  knowing  that  his  efforts 
were  futile.  He  continued  to  strike  until  his 
hands  were  purple  and  numb  and  his  freezing 
clothes  almost  shackled  him  to  the  ground. 

"Good  God!"  he  breathed. 

He  rose  slowly,  with  a  long,  shuddering 
breath  and  turned  his  eyes  to  where  the  out 
law's  trail  swung  from  the  lake  into  the  North. 
Even  in  that  moment,  as  the  blood  in  his  veins 
seemed  congealing  with  the  icy  chill  of  death, 
the  irony  of  the  situation  was  not  lost  upon 
Philip. 

"It's  the  law  versus  God,  Billy,"  he  chattered, 
as  if  DeBar  stood  before  him.  "The  law 
wouldn't  vindicate  itself  back  there — ten  years 
ago — but  I  guess  it's  doing  it  now." 

He  dropped  into  DeBar's  trail  and  began  to 
trot. 

"At  least  it  looks  as  if  you're  on  the  side  of 
171 


PHILIP    STEELE 

the  Mighty,"  he  continued.  "But  we'll  see — 
very  soon — Billy — " 

Ahead  of  him  the  trail  ran  up  a  ridge, 
broken  and  scattered  with  rocks  and  stunted 
scrub,  and  the  sight  of  it  gave  him  a  little 
hope.  Hope  died  when  he  reached  the  top  anrf 
stared  out  over  a  mile  of  lifeless  barren. 

"You're  my  only  chance,  Billy,"  he  shiv 
ered.  "Mebby,  if  you  knew  what  had  hap 
pened,  you'd  turn  back  and  give  me  the  loan 
of  a  match." 

He  tried  to  laugh  at  his  own  little  joke,  but 
it  was  a  ghastly  attempt  and  his  purpling  lips 
closed  tightly  as  he  stumbled  down  the  ridge. 
As  his  legs  grew  weaker  and  his  blood  more 
sluggish,  his  mind  seemed  to  work  faster,  and 
the  multitude  of  thoughts  that  surged  through 
his  brain  made  him  oblivious  of  the  first  gnaw 
ing  of  a  strange  dull  pain.  He  was  freezing. 
He  knew  that  without  feeling  pain.  He  had 
before  him,  not  hours,  but  minutes  of  life,  and 
he  knew  that,  too.  His  arms  might  have  been 

172 


ISOBEL'S   DISAPPEARANCE 

cut  off  at  the  shoulders  for  all  feeling  that  was 
left  in  them;  he  noticed,  as  he  stumbled  along 
in  a  half  run,  that  he  could  not  bend  his  fingers. 
At  every  step  his  legs  grew  heavier  and  his  feet 
were  now  leaden  weights.  Yet  he  was  sur 
prised  to  find  that  the  first  horror  of  his  situa 
tion  had  left  him.  It  did  not  seem  that  death 
was  only  a  few  hundred  yards  away,  and  he 
round  himself  thinking  of  MacGregor,  of 
home,  and  then  only  of  Isobel.  He  wondered, 
after  that,  if  some  one  of  the  other  four  had 
played  the  game,  and  lost,  in  this  same  way; 
and  he  wondered,  too,  if  his  bones  would  never 
be  found,  as  theirs  had  never  been. 

He  stopped  again  on  a  snow  ridge.  He  had 
come  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  though  it  seemed  that 
he  had  traveled  ten  times  that  distance. 

"Sixty  degrees  below  zero — and  it's  the  vin 
dication  of  the  law !" 

His  voice  scarcely  broke  between  his  purple 
lips  now,  and  the  bitter  sweep  of  wind  swayed 
him  as  he  stood. 

173 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  LAW  VERSUS  THE  MAN 

SUDDENLY  a  great  thrill  shot  through 
Philip,  and  for  an  instant  he  stood  rigid. 
What  was  that  he  saw  out  in  the  gray  gloom 
of  Arctic  desolation,  creeping  up,  up,  up,  al 
most  black  at  its  beginning,  and  dying  away 
like  a  ghostly  winding-sheet?  A  gurgling  cry 
rose  in  his  throat,  and  he  went  on,  panting  now 
like  a  broken-winded  beast  in  his  excitement. 
It  grew  near,  blacker,  warmer.  He  fancied 
that  he  could  feel  its  heat,  which  was  the  new 
fire  of  life  blazing  within  him. 

He  went  down  between  two  great  drifts  into 
a  pit  which  seemed  bottomless.  He  crawled  to 
the  top  of  the  second,  using  his  pulseless  hands 
like  sticks  in  the  snow,  and  at  the  top  some 
thing  rose  from  the  other  side  of  the  drift  to 
meet  him. 

174 


THE   LAW    VERSUS   THE   MAN 

It  was  a  face,  a  fierce,  bearded  face,  the 
gaunt  starvation  in  it  hidden  by  his  own  blind 
ness.  It  seemed  like  the  face  of  an  ogre,  ter 
rible,  threatening,  and  he  knew  that  it  was  the 
face  of  William  DeBar,  the  seventh  brother. 

He  launched  himself  forward,  and  the  other 
launched  himself  forward,  and  they  met  in  a 
struggle  which  was  pathetic  in  its  weakness, 
and  rolled  together  to  the  bottom  of  the  drift. 
Yet  the  struggle  was  no  less  terrible  because  of 
that  weakness.  It  was  a  struggle  between  two 
lingering  sparks  of  human  life  and  when  these 
two  sparks  had  flickered  and  blazed  and  died 
down,  the  two  men  lay  gasping,  an  arm's  reach 
from  each  other. 

Philip's  eyes  went  to  the  fire.  It  was  a  small 
fire,  burning  more  brightly  as  he  looked,  and 
he  longed  to  throw  himself  upon  it  so  that  the 
flames  might  eat  into  his  flesh.  He  had  mum 
bled  something  about  police,  arrest  and  murder 
during  the  struggle,  but  DeBar  spoke  for  the 
first  time  now. 

175 


PHILIP    STEELE 

"You're  cold,"  he  said. 

"I'm  freezing  to  death,"  said  Philip. 

"And  I'm — starving." 

DeBar  rose  to  his  feet.  Philip  drew  him 
self  together,  as  if  expecting  an  attack,  but  in 
place  of  it  DeBar  held  out  a  warmly  mittened 
hand. 

"You've  got  to  get  those  clothes  off— quick 
—or  you'll  die,"  he  said.  "Here !" 

Mechanically  Philip  reached  up  his  hand, 
and  DeBar  took  him  to  his  sledge  behind  the 
fire  and  wrapped  about  him  a  thick  blanket. 
Then  he  drew  out  a  sheath  knife  and  ripped 
the  frozen  legs  of  his  trousers  up  and  the 
sleeves  of  his  coat  down,  cut  the  string  of  his 
shoe-packs  and  slit  his  heavy  German  socks, 
and  after  that  he  rubbed  his  feet  and  legs  and 
arms  until  Philip  began  to  feel  a  sting  like  the 
prickly  bite  of  nettles. 

"Ten  minutes  more  and  you'd  been  gone," 
said  DeBar. 

He  wrapped  a  second  blanket  around  Philip, 
176 


THE   LAW   VERSUS   THE   MAN 

and  dragged  the  sledge  on  which  he  was  lying 
still  nearer  to  the  fire.  Then  he  threw  on  a 
fresh  armful  of  dry  sticks  and  from  a  pocket 
of  his  coat  drew  forth  something  small  and 
red  and  frozen,  which  was  the  carcass  of  a  bird 
about  the  size  of  a  robin.  DeBar  held  it  up 
between  his  forefinger  and  thumb,  and  looking 
at  Philip,  the  flash  of  a  smile  passed  for  an 
instant  over  his  grizzled  face. 

"Dinner,"  he  said,  and  Philip  could  not  fail 
to  catch  the  low  chuckling  note  of  humor  in 
his  voice.  "It's  a  Whisky  Jack,  man,  an  he's 
the  first  and  last  living  thing  I've  seen  in  the 
way  of  fowl  between  here  and  Fond  du  Lac 
He  weighs  four  ounces  if  he  weighs  an  ounce, 
and  we'll  feast  on  him  shortly.  I  haven't  had 
a  full  mouth  of  grub  since  day  before  yester 
day  morning,  but  you're  welcome  to  a  half  of 
him,  if  you're  hungry  enough." 

"Where'd  your  chuck  go?"  asked  Philip. 

He  was  conscious  of  a  new  warmth  and 
comfort  in  his  veins,  but  it  was  not  this  that 
177 


PHILIP    STEELE 

sent  a  heat  into  his  face  at  the  outlaw's  offer. 
DeBar  had  saved  his  life,  and  now,  when  De- 
Bar  might  have  killed  him,  he  was  offering  him 
food.  The  man  was  spitting  the  bird  on  the 
sharpened  end  of  a  stick,  and  when  he  had  done 
this  he  pointed  to  the  big  Mackenzie  hound, 
tied  to  the  broken  stub  of  a  dead  sapling. 

"I  brought  enough  bannock  to  carry  me  to 
Chippewayan,  but  he  got  into  it  the  first  night, 
and  what  he  left  was  crumbs.  You  lost  yours 
in  the  lake,  eh?" 

"Dogs  and  everything,"  said  Philip.  "Even 
matches." 

"Those  ice-traps  are  bad,"  said  DeBar  com- 
panionably,  slowly  turning  the  bird.  "You  al 
ways  want  to  test  the  lakes  in  this  country. 
Most  of  'em  come  from  bog  springs,  and  after 
they  freeze,  the  water  drops.  Guess  you'd  had 
me  pretty  soon  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  lake, 
wouldn't  you  ?" 

He  grinned,  and  to  his  own  astonishment 
Philip  grinned. 

178 


THE   LAW  VERSUS   THE   MAN 

"I  was  tight  after  you,  Bill." 

"Ho!  ho!  ho!"  laughed  the  outlaw.  "That 
sounds  good!  I've  gone  by  another  name,  of 
course,  and  that's  the  first  time  I've  heard  my 
own  since — " 

He  stopped  suddenly,  and  the  laugh  left  his 
voice  and  face. 

"It  sounds — homelike,"  he  added  more 
gently.  "\Vhat's  yours,  pardner?" 

"Steele— Philip  Steele,  of  the  R.  N.  W.  M. 
P.,"  said  Philip. 

"Used  to  know  a  Steele  once,"  went  on  De- 
Bar.  "That  was  back — where  it  happened. 
He  was  one  of  my  friends." 

For  a  moment  he  turned  his  eyes  on  Philip. 
They  were  deep  gray  eyes,  set  well  apart  in  a 
face  that  among  a  hundred  others  Philip  would 
have  picked  out  for  its  frankness  and  courage. 
He  knew  that  the  man  before  him  was  not 
much  more  than  his  own  age,  yet  he  appeared 
ten  years  older. 

He  sat  up  on  his  sledge  as  DeBar  left  his 
179 


PHILIP    STEELE 

bird  to  thrust  sticks  into  the  snow,  on  the  ends 
of  which  he  hung  Philip's  frozen  garments 
close  to  the  fire.  From  the  man  Philip's  eyes 
traveled  to  the  dog.  The  hound  yawned  in  the 
heat  and  he  saw  that  one  of  his  fangs  was 
gone. 

"If  you're  starving,  why  don't  you  kill  the 
dog?"  he  asked. 

DeBar  turned  quickly,  his  white  teeth  gleam 
ing  through  his  beard. 

"Because  he's  the  best  friend  I've  got  on 
earth,  or  next  to  the  best,"  he  said  warmly. 
"He's  stuck  to  me  through  thick  and  thin  for 
ten  years.  He  starved  with  me,  and  fought 
with  me,  and  half  died  with  me,  and  he's  going 
to  live  with  me  as  long  as  I  live.  Would  you 
eat  the  flesh  of  your  brother,  Steele?  He's  my 
brother — the  last  that  your  glorious  law  has 
left  to  me.  Would  you  kill  him  if  you  were 
me?" 

Something  stuck  hard  and  fast  in  Philip's 
throat,  and  he  made  no  reply.  DeBar  came 
1 80 


THE   LAW   VERSUS   THE   MAN 

toward  him  with  the  hot  bird  on  the  end  of  his 
stick.  With  his  knife  the  outlaw  cut  the  bird 
into  two  equal  parts,  and  one  of  these  parts  he 
cut  into  quarters.  One  of  the  smaller  pieces 
he  tossed  to  the  hound,  who  devoured  it  at  a 
gulp.  The  half  he  stuck  on  the  end  of  his 
knife  and  offered  to  his  companion. 

"No,"  said  Philip.    "I  can't." 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met,  and  DeBar, 
on  his  knees,  slowly  settled  back,  still  gazing 
at  the  other.  In  the  eyes  of  one  there  was 
understanding,  in  those  of  the  other  stern  de 
termination. 

"See  here,"  said  DeBar,  after  a  moment, 
"don't  be  a  fool,  Steele.  Let's  forget,  for  a 
little  while.  God  knows  what's  going  to  hap 
pen  to  both  of  us  to-morrow  or  next  day,  and 
it'll  be  easier  to  die  with  company  than  alone, 
won't  it?  Let's  forget  that  you're  the  Law 
and  I'm  the  Man,  and  that  I've  killed  one  or 
two.  We're  both  in  the  same  boat,  and  we 
might  as  well  be  a  little  bit  friendly  for  a  few 
181 


PHILIP   STEELE 

hours,  and  shake  hands,  and  be  at  peace  when 
the  last  minute  comes.  If  we  get  out  of  this, 
and  find  grub,  we'll  fight  fair  and  square,  and 
the  best  man  wins.  Be  square  with  me,  old 
man,  and  I'll  be  square  with  you,  s'elp  me 
God!" 

He  reached  out  a  hand,  gnarled,  knotted, 
covered  with  callouses  and  scars,  and  with  a 
strange  sound  in  his  throat  Philip  caught  it 
tightly  in  his  own. 

"I'll  be  square,  Bill!"  he  cried.  "I  swear 
that  I'll  be  square — on  those  conditions.  If  we 
find  grub,  and  live,  we'll  fight  it  out — alone — 
and  the  best  man  wins.  But  I've  had  food  to 
day,  and  you're  starving.  Eat  that  and  I'll 
still  be  in  better  condition  than  you.  Eat  it, 
and  we'll  smoke.  Praise  God  I've  got  my  pipe 
and  tobacco !" 

They  settled  back  close  in  the  lee  of  the  drift, 
and  the  wind  swirled  white  clouds  of  snow- 
mist  over  their  heads,  while  DeBar  ate  his 
bird  and  Philip  smoked.  The  food  that  went 
182 


THE   LAW   VERSUS   THE   MAN 

down  DeBar's  throat  was  only  a  morsel,  but  it 
put  new  life  into  him,  and  he  gathered  fresh 
armfuls  of  sticks  and  sapling  boughs  until  the 
fire  burned  Philip's  face  and  his  drying  clothes 
sent  up  clouds  of  steam.  Once,  a  hundred 
yards  out  in  the  plain,  Philip  heard  the  outlaw 
burst  into  a  snatch  of  wild  forest  song  as  he 
pulled  down  a  dead  stub. 

"Seems  good  to  have  comp'ny,"  he  said, 
when  he  came  back  with  his  load.  "My  God, 
do  you  know  I've  never  felt  quite  like  this — so 
easy  and  happy  like,  since  years  and  years?  I 
wonder  if  it  is  because  I  know  the  end  is  near?" 

"There's  still  hope,"  replied  Philip. 

"Hope!"  cried  DeBar.  "It's  more  than 
hope,  man.  It's  a  certainty  for  me — the  end, 
I  mean.  Don't  you  see,  Phil — "  He  came  and 
sat  down  close  to  the  other  on  the  sledge,  and 
spoke  as  if  he  had  known  him  for  years.  "It's 
got  to  be  the  end  for  me,  and  I  guess  that's 
what  makes  me  cheerful  like.  I'm  going  tc 
tell  you  about  it,  if  you  don't  mind." 

183 


PHILIP    STEELE 

"I  don't  mind ;  I  want  to  hear,"  said  Philip, 
and  he  edged  a  little  nearer,  until  they  sat 
shoulder  to  shoulder. 

"It's  got  to  be  the  end,"  repeated  DeBar,  in 
a  low  voice.  "If  we  get  out  of  this,  and  fight, 
and  you  win,  it'll  be  because  I'm  dead,  Phil. 
D'ye  understand?  I'll  be  dead  when  the  fight 
ends,  if  you  win.  That'll  be  one  end  " 

"But  if  you  win,  Bill." 

A  flash  of  joy  shot  into  DeBar's  eyes. 

"Then  that'll  be  the  other  end,"  he  said  more 
softly  still.  He  pointed  to  the  big  Mackenzie 
hound.  "I  said  he  was  next  to  my  best  friend 
on  earth,  Phil.  The  other — is  a  girl — who  lived 
back  there — when  it  happened,  years  and  years 
ago.  She's  thirty  now,  and  she's  stuck  to  me, 
and  prayed  for  me,  and  believed  in  me  for — 
a'most  since  we  were  kids  together,  an'  she's 
written  to  me — 'Frank  Symmonds' — once  a 
month  for  ten  years.  God  bless  her  heart! 
That  is  what's  kept  me  alive,  and  in  every  let 
ter  she's  begged  me  to  let  her  come  to  me, 


THE   LAW   VERSUS   THE   MAN 

wherever  I  was.  But — I  guess  the  devil  didn\ 
get  quite  all  of  me,  for  I  couldn't,  'n'  wouldn't 
But  I've  give  in  now,  and  we've  fixed  it  up  be* 
tween  us.  By  this  time  she's  on  her  way  to 
my  brothers  in  South  America,  and  if  I  win — 
when  we  fight — I'm  going  where  she  is.  And 
that's  the  other  end,  Phil,  so  you  see  why  I'm 
happy.  There's  sure  to  be  an  end  of  it  for  me 
— soon." 

He  bowed  his  wild,  unshorn  head  in  his  mit- 
tened  hands,  and  for  a  time  there  was  silence 
between  them. 

Philip  broke  it,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

"Why  don't  you  kill  me — here — now — while 
I'm  sitting  helpless  beside  you,  and  you've  a 
knife  in  your  belt?" 

DeBar  lifted  his  head  slowly  and  looked 
with  astonishment  into  his  companion's  face. 

"I'm  not  a  murderer !"  he  said. 

"But  you've  killed  other  men,"  persisted 
Philip. 

"Three,  besides  those  we  hung,"  replied 
'85 


PHILIP    STEELE 

Bar  calmly.  "One  at  Moose  Factory,  when  1 
tried  to  help  John,  and  the  other  two  up  here. 
They  were  like  you — hunting  me  down,  and  I 
'cilled  'em  in  fair  fight.  Was  that  murder? 
Should  I  stand  by  and  be  shot  like  an  animal 
just  because  it's  the  law  that's  doing  it? 
Would  you?" 

He  rose  without  waiting  for  an  answer  and 
felt  of  the  clothes  beside  the  fire. 

"Dry  enough,"  he  said.     "Put  'em  on  and 
we'll  be  hiking." 

Philip  dressed,  and  looked  at  his  compass. 

"Still  north?"  he  asked.    "Chippewayan  is 
south  and  west." 

"North,"  said  DeBar.     "I  know  of  a  breed 
who  lives  on  Red  Porcupine  Creek,  which  runs 
into  the  Slave.     If  we  can  find  him  we'll  ge 
grub,  and  if  we  don't — " 

He  laughed  openly  into  the  other's  face. 

"We  won't  fight,"  said  Philip,  understand 
ing  him. 

"No,  we  won't  fight,  but  we'll  wrap  up  in  the 
186 


THE   LAW   VERSUS   THE   MAN 

same  blankets,  and  die,  with  Woonga,  there, 
keeping  our  backs  warm  until  the  last.  Eh, 
Woonga,  will  you  do  that?" 

He  turned  cheerily  to  the  dog,  and  Woonga 
rose  slowly  and  with  unmistakable  stiffness  of 
limb,  and  was  fastened  in  the  sledge  traces. 

They  went  on  through  the  desolate  gloom  of 
afternoon,  which  in  late  winter  is,  above  the 
sixtieth,  all  but  night.  Ahead  of  them  there 
seemed  to  rise  billow  upon  billow  of  snow- 
mountains,  which  dwarfed  themselves  into 
drifted  dunes  when  they  approached,  and  the 
heaven  above  them,  and  the  horizon  on  all 
sides  of  them  were  shut  out  from  their  vision 
by  a  white  mist  which  was  intangible  and  with 
out  substance  and  yet  which  rose  like  a  wall 
before  their  eyes.  It  was  one  chaos  of  white 
mingling  with  another  chaos  of  white,  a  chaos 
of  white  earth  smothered  and  torn  by  the  Arc 
tic  wind  under  a  chaos  of  white  sky;  and 
through  it  all,  saplings  that  one  might  have 
twisted  and  broken  over  his  knee  were  magni- 
187 


PHILIP    STEELE 

fied  into  giants  at  a  distance  of  half  a  hundred 
paces,  and  men  and  dog  looked  like  huge  spec 
ters  moving  with  bowed  heads  through  a  world 
that  was  no  longer  a  world  of  life,  but  of  dead 
and  silent  things.  And  up  out  of  this,  after  9 
time,  rose  DeBar's  voice,  chanting  in  tones 
filled  with  the  savagery  of  the  North,  a  wild 
song  that  was  half  breed  and  half  French, 
which  the  forest  men  sing  in  their  joy  when 
coming  very  near  to  home. 

They  went  on,  hour  after  hour,  until  day 
gloom  thickened  into  night,  and  night  drifted 
upward  to  give  place  to  gray  dawn,  plodding 
steadily  north,  resting  now  and  then,  fighting 
each  mile  of  the  way  to  the  Red  Porcupine 
against  the  stinging  lashes  of  the  Arctic  wind. 
And  through  it  all  it  was  DeBar's  voice  that 
rose  in  encouragement  to  the  dog  limping  be 
hind  him  and  to  the  man  limping  behind  the 
dog — now  in  song,  now  in  the  wild  shouting 
of  the  sledge-driver,  his  face  thin  and  gaunt 
in  its  starved  whiteness,  but  his  eyes  alive  with 
188 


THE   LAW   VERSUS   THE   MAN 

a  strange  fire.  And  it  was  DeBar  who  lifted 
his  mittened  hands  to  the  leaden  chaos  of  sky 
when  they  came  to  the  frozen  streak  that  was 
the  Red  Porcupine,  and  said,  in  a  voice  through 
which  there  ran  a  strange  thrill  of  something 
deep  and  mighty,  "God  in  Heaven  be  praised, 
this  is  the  end !" 

He  started  into  a  trot  now,  and  the  dog 
trotted  behind  him,  and  behind  the  dog  trotted 
Philip,  wondering,  as  he  had  wondered  a  dozen 
times  before  that  night,  if  DeBar  were  going 
mad.  Five  hundred  yards  down  the  stream 
DeBar  stopped  in  his  tracks,  stared  for  a  mo 
ment  into  the  breaking  gloom  of  the  shore,  and 
turned  to  Philip.  He  spoke  in  a  voice  low  and 
trembling,  as  if  overcome  for  the  moment  by 
some  strong  emotion. 

"See — see  there!"  he  whispered.  "I've  hit 
it,  Philip  Steele,  and  what  does  it  mean  ?  I've 
come  over  seventy  miles  of  barren,  through 
night  an'  storm,  an'  I've  hit  Pierre  Thoreau's 
cabin  as  fair  as  a  shot!  Oh,  man,  man,  I 
189 


PHILIP    STEELE 

couldn't  do  it  once  in  ten  thousand  times !"  He 
gripped  Philip's  arm,  and  his  voice  rose  in  ex 
cited  triumph.  "I  tell  'ee,  it  means  that — that 
God — 'r  something — must  be  with  me !" 

"With  us,"  said  Philip,  staring  hard. 

"With  me,"  replied  DeBar  so  fiercely  that 
the  other  started  involuntarily.  "It's  a  mir 
acle,  an  omen,  and  it  means  that  I'm  going  to 
win !"  His  fingers  gripped  deeper,  and  he  said 
more  gently,  "Phil,  I've  grown  to  like  you,  and 
if  you  believe  in  God  as  we  believe  in  Him  up 
here — if  you  believe  He  tells  things  in  the 
stars,  the  winds  and  things  like  this,  if  you're 
afraid  of  death — take  some  grub  and  go  back ! 
I  mean  it,  Phil,  for  if  you  stay,  an'  fight,  there 
is  going  to  be  but  one  end.  I  will  kill  you  1" 


IQO 


CHAPTER    XII 

THE  FIGHT — AND  A  STRANGE  VISITOR 

AT  DeBar's  words  the  blood  leaped  swiftly 
through  Philip's  veins,  and  he  laughed 
as  he  flung  the  outlaw's  hand  from  his  arm. 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  death,"  he  cried  angrily. 
"Don't  take  me  for  a  child,  William  DeBar. 
How  long  since  you  found  this  God  of  yours?" 

He  spoke  the  words  half  tauntingly,  and  as 
soon  regretted  them,  for  in  a  voice  that  be 
trayed  no  anger  at  the  slur  DeBar  said :  "Ever 
since  my  mother  taught  me  the  first  prayer, 
Phil.  I've  killed  three  men  and  I've  helped  to 
hang  three  others,  and  still  I  believe  in  a  God, 
and  I've  half  a  notion  He  believes  a  little  bit  in 
me,  in  spite  of  the  laws  made  down  in  Ottawa." 

The  cabin  loomed  up  amid  a  shelter  of  spruce 
like  a  black  shadow,  and  when  they  climbed  up 
191 


PHILIP    STEELE 

the  bank  to  it  they  found  the  snow  drifted  high 
under  the  window  and  against  the  door. 

"He's  gone — Pierre,  I  mean,"  said  DeBar 
over  his  shoulder  as  he  kicked  the  snow  away. 
"He  hasn't  come  back  from  New  Year's  at 
Fort  Smith." 

The  door  had  no  lock  or  bolt,  and  they  en 
tered.  It  was  yet  too  dark  for  them  to  see  dis 
tinctly,  and  DeBar  struck  a  match.  On  the 
table  was  a  tin  oil  lamp,  which  he  lighted.  It 
revealed  a  neatly  kept  interior  about  a  dozen 
feet  square,  with  two  bunks,  several  chairs,  a 
table,  and  a  sheet  iron  stove  behind  which  was 
piled  a  supply  of  wood.  DeBar  pointed  to  a 
shelf  on  which  were  a  number  of  tin  boxes, 
their  covers  weighted  down  by  chunks  of  wood. 

"Grub!"  he  said. 

And  Philip,  pointing  to  the  wood,  added, 
"Fire — fire  and  grub." 

There  was  something  in  his  voice  which  the 
other  could  not  fail  to  understand,  and  there 
was  an  uncomfortable  silence  as  Philip  put  fuel 
192 


-THE  FIGHT— A  STRANGE  VISITOR 

into  the  stove  and  DeBar  searched  among  the 
food  cans. 

"Here's  bannock  and  cooked  meat — frozen," 
he  said,  "and  beans." 

He  placed  tins  of  each  on  the  stove  and  then 
sat  down  beside  the  roaring  fire,  which  was 
already  beginning  to  diffuse  a  heat.  He  held 
out  his  twisted  and  knotted  hands,  blue  and 
shaking  with  cold,  and  looked  up  at  Philip,  who 
stood  opposite  him. 

He  spoke  no  words,  and  yet  there  was  some 
thing  in  his  eyes  which  made  the  latter  cry  out 
softly,  and  with  a  feeling  which  he  tried  to 
hide:  "DeBar,  I  wish  to  God  it  was  over!" 

"So  do  I,"  said  DeBar. 

He  rubbed  his  hands  and  tv/isted  them  until 
the  knuckles  cracked. 

"I'm  not  afraid  and  I  know  that  you're  not, 
Phil,"  he  went  on,  with  his  eyes  on  the  top  of 
the  stove,  "but  I  wish  it  was  over,  just  the 
same.  Somehow  I'd  a'most  rather  stay  up  here 
another  year  or  two  than — kill  you." 

193 


PHILIP    STEELE 

"Kill  me!"  exclaimed  Philip,  the  old  fire 
leaping  back  into  his  veins. 

DeBar's  quiet  voice,  his  extraordinary  self- 
confidence,  sent  a  flush  of  anger  into  Philip's 
face. 

"You're  talking  to  me  again  as  if  I  were  a 
child,  DeBar.  My  instructions  were  to  bring 
you  back,  dead  or  alive — and  I'm  going  to!" 

"We  won't  quarrel  about  it,  Phil,"  replied 
the  outlaw  as  quietly  as  before.  "Only  I  wish 
it  wasn't  you  I'm  going  to  fight.  I'd  rather  kill 
half-a-dozen  like  the  others  than  you." 

"I  see,"  said  Philip,  with  a  perceptible  sneer 
in  his  voice.  "You're  trying  to  work  upon  my 
sympathy  so  that  I  will  follow  your  suggestion 
—and  go  back.  Eh  ?" 

"You'd  be  a  coward  if  you  did  that,"  re 
torted  DeBar  quickly.  "How  are  we  going  to 
settle  it,  Phil?" 

Philip  drew  his  frozen  revolver  from  its 
holster  and  held  it  over  the  stove. 

"If  I  wasn't  a  crack  shot,  and  couldn't  center 
194 


THE  FIGHT— A  STRANGE  VISITOR 

a  two-inch  bull's-eye  three  times  out  of  four  at 
thirty  paces,  I'd  say  pistols." 

"I  can't  do  that,"  said  DeBar  unhesitatingly, 
"but  I  have  hit  a  wolf  twice  out  of  five  shots. 
It'll  be  a  quick,  easy  way,  and  we'll  settle  it 
with  our  revolvers.  Going  to  shoot  to  kill  ?" 

"No,  if  I  can  help  it.  In  the  excitement  a 
shot  may  kill,  but  I  want  to  take  you  back  alive, 
so  I'll  wing  you  once  or  twice  first" 

"I  always  shoot  to  kill,"  replied  DeBar,  with 
out  lifting  his  head.  "Any  word  you'd  like  to 
have  sent  home,  Phil?" 

In  the  other's  silence  DeBar  looked  up. 

"I  mean  it,"  he  said,  in  a  low  earnest  voice. 
"Even  from  your  point  of  view  it  might  hap 
pen,  Phil,  and  you've  got  friends  somewhere. 
If  anything  should  happen  to  me  you'll  find  a 
letter  in  my  pocket.  I  want  you  to  write  to — 
to  her — an'  tell  her  I  died  in — an  accident. 
Will  you?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Philip.  "As  for  me,  you'll 
find  addresses  in  my  pocket,  too.  Let's  shake !" 

'95 


PHILIP    STEELE 

Over  the  stove  they  gripped  hands. 

"My  eyes  hurt,"  said  DeBar.  "It's  the  snow 
and  wind,  I  guess.  Do  you  mind  a  little  sleep 
— after  we  eat  ?  I  haven't  slept  a  wink  in  three 
days  and  nights." 

"Sleep  until  you're  ready,"  urged  Philip.  "I 
don't  want  to  fight  bad  eyes." 

They  ate,  mostly  in  silence,  and  when  the 
meal  was  done  Philip  carefully  cleaned  his  re 
volver  and  oiled  it  with  bear  grease,  which  he 
found  in  a  bottle  on  the  shelf. 

DeBar  watched  him  as  he  wiped  his  weapon 
and  saw  that  Philip  lubricated  each  of  the  five 
cartridges  which  he  put  in  the  chamber. 

Afterward  they  smoked. 

Then  DeBar  stretched  himself  out  in  one  of 
the  two  bunks,  and  his  heavy  breathing  soon 
gave  evidence  that  he  was  sleeping. 

For  a  time  Philip  sat  beside  the  stove,  his 

eyes  upon  the  inanimate  form  of  the  outlaw. 

Drowsiness  overcame  him  then,  and  he  rolled 

into  the  other  bunk.    He  was  awakened  several 

196 


THE  FIGHT— A  STRANGE  VISITOR 

hours  later  by  DeBar,  who  was  filling  the  stove 
with  wood. 

"How's  the  eyes?"  he  asked,  sitting  up. 

"Good,"  said  the  other.  "Glad  you're  awake. 
The  light  will  be  bad  inside  of  an  hour." 

He  was  rubbing  and  warming  his  hands,  and 
Philip  came  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  stove 
and  rubbed  and  warmed  his  hands.  For  some 
reason  he  found  it  difficult  to  look  at  DeBar, 
and  he  knew  that  DeBar  was  not  looking  at 
him. 

It  was  the  outlaw  who  broke  the  suspense. 

"I've  been  outside,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"There's  an  open  in  front  of  the  cabin,  just  a 
hundred  paces  across.  It  wouldn't  be  a  bad 
idea  for  us  to  stand  at  opposite  sides  of  the 
open  and  at  a  given  signal  approach,  firing  as 
we  want  to." 

"Couldn't  be  better,"  exclaimed  Philip 
briskly,  turning  to  pull  his  revolver  from  its 
holster. 

DcBar  watched  him  with  tensely  anxious 
197 


PHILIP    STEELE 

eyes  as  he  broke  the  breech,  looked  at  the  shiri- 
ing  circle  of  cartridges,  and  closed  it  again. 

Without  a  word  he  went  to  the  door,  opened 
it,  and  with  his  pistol  arm  trailing  at  his  side, 
strode  off  to  the  right.  For  a  moment  Philip 
stood  looking  after  him,  a  queer  lump  in  his 
throat.  He  would  have  liked  to  shake  hands, 
and  yet  at  the  same  time  he  was  glad  that  De- 
Bar  had  gone  in  this  way.  He  turned  to  the 
left — and  saw  at  a  glance  that  the  outlaw  had 
given  him  the  best  light.  DeBar  was  facing 
him  when  he  reached  his  ground. 

"Are  you  ready  ?"  he  shouted. 

"Ready!"  cried  Philip. 

DeBar  ran  forward,  shoulders  hunched  low, 
his  pistol  arm  half  extended,  and  Philip  ad 
vanced  to  meet  him.  At  seventy  paces,  with 
out  stopping  in  his  half  trot,  the  outlaw  fired, 
and  his  bullet  passed  in  a  hissing  warning  three 
feet  over  Philip's  head.  The  latter  had  planned 
to  hold  his  fire  until  he  was  sure  of  hitting  the 
outlaw  in  the  arm  or  shoulder,  but  a  second 

IQ8 


THE  FIGHT— A  STRANGE  VISITORv 

shot  from  him,  which  seemed  to  Philip  almost 
to  nip  him  in  the  face,  stopped  him  short,  and 
at  fifty  paces  he  returned  the  fire. 

DeBar  ducked  low  and  Philip  thought  that 
he  was  hit. 

Then  with  a  fierce  yell  he  darted  forward, 
firing  as  he  came. 

Again,  and  still  a  third  time  Philip  fired,  and 
as  DeBar  advanced,  unhurt,  after  each  shot,  a 
cry  of  amazement  rose  to  his  lips.  At  forty 
paces  he  could  nip  a  four-inch  bull's-eye  three 
times  out  of  five,  and  here  he  missed  a  man! 
At  thirty  he  held  an  unbeaten  record — and  at 
thirty,  here  in  the  broad  open,  he  still  missed 
his  man ! 

He  had  felt  the  breath  of  DeBar's  fourth 
shot,  and  now  with  one  cartridge  each  the  men 
advanced  foot  by  foot,  until  DeBar  stopped 
and  deliberately  aimed  at  twenty  paces.  Their 
pistols  rang  out  in  one  report,  and,  standing, 
unhurt,  a  feeling  of  horror  swept  over  Philip 
as  he  looked  at  the  other.  The  outlaw's  arms 
199 


PHILIP    STEELE 

fell  to  his  side.  His  empty  pistol  dropped  to 
the  snow,  and  for  a  moment  he  stood  rigid, 
with  his  face  half  turned  to  the  gloomy  sky, 
while  a  low  cry  of  grief  burst  from  Philip's 
lips. 

In  that  momentary  posture  of  DeBar  he  saw, 
not  the  effect  of  a  wound  only,  but  the  grim, 
terrible  rigidity  of  death.  He  dropped  his  own 
weapon  and  ran  forward,  and  in  that  instant 
DeBar  leaped  to  meet  him  with  the  fierceness 
of  a  beast ! 

It  was  a  terrible  bit  of  play  on  DeBar's  part, 
and  for  a  moment  took  Philip  off  his  guard. 
He  stepped  aside,  and,  with  the  cleverness  of  a 
trained  boxer,  he  sent  a  straight  cut  to  the  out 
law's  face  as  he  closed  in.  But  the  blow  lacked 
force,  and  he  staggered  back  under  the  other's 
weight,  boiling  with  rage  at  the  advantage 
which  DeBar  had  taken  of  him. 

The  outlaw's  hands  gripped  at  his  throat  and 
his  fingers  sank  into  his  neck  like  cords  of  steel. 
With  a  choking  gasp  he  clutched  at  DeBar's 
200 


THE  FIGHT— A  STRANGE  VISITOR  v 

wrists,  knowing  that  another  minute — a  half- 
minute  of  that  death  clutch  would  throttle  him. 
He  saw  the  triumph  in  DeBar's  eyes,  and  with 
a  last  supreme  effort  drew  back  his  arm  and 
sent  a  terrific  short-arm  punch  into  the  other's 
stomach. 

The  grip  at  his  throat  relaxed.  A  second,  a 
third,  and  a  fourth  blow,  his  arm  traveling 
swiftly  in  and  out,  like  a  piston-rod,  and  the 
triumph  in  DeBar's  eyes  was  replaced  by  a  look 
of  agony.  The  fingers  at  his  throat  loosened 
still  more,  and  with  a  sudden  movement  Philip 
freed  himself  and  sprang  back  a  step  to  gather 
force  for  the  final  blow. 

The  move  was  fatal.  Behind  him  his  heel 
caught  in  a  snow-smothered  log  and  he  pitched 
backward  with  DeBar  on  top  of  him. 

Again  the  iron  fingers  burned  at  his  throat. 
But  this  time  he  made  no  resistance,  and  after 
a  moment  the  outlaw  rose  to  his  feet  and  stared 
down  into  the  white,  still  face  half  buried  in 
the  snow.  Then  he  gently  lifted  Philip's  head 

201 


PHILIP    STEELE 

in  his  arms.  There  was  a  crimson  blotch  in  the 
snow  and  close  to  it  the  black  edge  of  a  hidden 
rock. 

As  quickly  as  possible  DeBar  carried  Philip 
into  the  cabin  and  placed  him  on  one  of  the 
cots.  Then  he  gathered  certain  articles  of  food 
from  Pierre's  stock  and  put  them  in  his  pack. 
He  had  carried  the  pack  half  way  to  the  door 
when  he  stopped,  dropped  his  load  gently  to  thfc 
floor,  and  thrust  a  hand  inside  his  coat  pocket. 
From  it  he  drew  forth  a  letter.  It  was  a  wom 
an's  letter — and  he  read  it  now  with  bowed 
head,  a  letter  of  infinite  faith,  and  hope,  and 
love,  and  when  once  more  he  turned  toward 
Philip  his  face  was  filled  with  the  flush  of  a 
great  happiness. 

"Mebby  you  don't  just  understand,  Phil,"  he 
whispered,  as  if  the  other  were  listening  to  him. 
"I'm  going  to  leave  this." 

With  the  stub  of  a  pencil  he  scribbled  a  few 
words  at  the  bottom  of  the  crumpled  letter. 

He  wrote  in  a  crude,  awkward  hand : 
202 


THE  FIGHT— A  STRANGE  VISITOR 

You'd  won  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  rock. 
But  I  guess  mebby  that  it  was  God  who  put  the 
rock  there,  Phil.  While  you  was  asleep  I  took 
the  bullets  out  of  your  cartridges  and  put  in 
damp  paper,  for  I  didn't  want  to  see  any  harm 
done  with  the  guns.  I  didn't  shoot  to  hit  you, 
and  after  all,  I'm  glad  it  was  the  rock  that  hurt 
you  instead  of  me. 

He  leaned  over  the  cot  to  assure  himself  that 
Philip's  breath  was  coming  steadier  and 
stronger,  and  then  laid  the  letter  on  the  young 
man's  breast. 

Five  minutes  later  he  was  plodding  steadily 
ahead  of  his  big  Mackenzie  hound  into  the 
peopleless  barrens  to  the  south  and  west. 

And  still  later  Philip  opened  his  eyes  and 
saw  what  DeBar  had  left  for  him.  He  strug 
gled  into  a  sitting  posture  and  read  the  few 
lines  which  the  outlaw  had  written. 

"Here's  to  you,  Mr.  Felix  MacGregor,"  he 
chuckled  feebly,  balancing  himself  on  the  edge 
of  the  bunk.  "You're  right.  It'll  take  two 
203 


PHILIP    STE£LE 

men  to  lay  out  Mr.  William  DeBar — if  you 
ever  get  him  at  all !" 

Three  days  later,  still  in  the  cabin,  he  raised 
^  hand  to  his  bandaged  head  with  an  odd 
grimace,  half  of  pain,  half  of  laughter. 

"You're  a  good  one,  you  are!"  he  said  to 
himself,  limping  back  and  forth  across  the 
narrow  space  of  the  cabin.  "You've  got  them 
all  beaten  to  a  rag  when  it  comes  to  playing  the 
chump,  Phil  Steele.  Here  you  go  up  to  Big 
Chief  MacGregor,  throw  out  your  chest,  and 
say  to  him,  'I  can  get  that  man,'  and  when  the 
big  chief  says  you  can't,  you  call  him  a  four- 
ply  ignoramus  in  your  mind,  and  get  permission 
to  go  after  him  anyway — just  because  you're 
in  love.  You  follow  your  man  up  here — four 
hundred  miles  or  so— and  what's  the  conse 
quence?  You  lose  all  hope  of  finding  her,  and 
your  'man'  does  just  what  the  big  chief  said 
he  would  do,  and  lays  you  out — though  it 
wasn't  your  fault  after  all.  Then  you  take 
possession  of  another  man's  shack  when  he  isn't 
204. 


THE  FIGHT— A  STRANGE  VISITOR 

at  home,  eat  his  grub,  nurse  a  broken  head,  and 
wonder  why  the  devil  you  ever  joined  the 
glorious  Royal  Mounted  when  you've  got 
money  to  burn.  You're  a  wise  one,  you  arCj 
Phil  Steele — but  you've  learned  something 
new.  You've  learned  there's  never  a  man  so 
good  but  there's  a  better  one  somewhere — even 
if  he  is  a  man-killer  like  Mr.  William  DeBar." 

He  lighted  his  pipe  and  went  to  the  door. 
For  the  first  time  in  days  the  sun  was  shining 
in  a  cold  blaze  of  fire  over  the  southeastern 
edge  of  the  barrens,  which  swept  away  in  a 
limitless  waste  of  snow-dune  and  rock  and 
stunted  scrub  among  which  occasional  Indian 
and  half-breed  trappers  set  their  dead- falls  and 
poison  baits  for  the  northern  fox.  Sixty  miles 
to  the  west  was  Fort  Smith.  A  hundred  miles 
to  the  south  lay  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company's 
post  at  Chippewayan ;  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles 
to  the  south  and  east  was  the  post  at  Fond  du 
Lac,  and  to  the  north — nothing.  A  thousand 
miles  or  so  up  there  one  would  have  struck  the 
205 


PHILIP    STEELE 

polar  sea  and  the  Eskimo,  and  it  was  with  this 
thought  of  the  lifelessness  and  mystery  of  a 
dead  and  empty  world  that  Philip  turned  his 
eyes  from  the  sun  into  the  gray  desolation  that 
reached  from  Pierre  Thoreau's  door  to  the  end 
of  the  earth.  Far  off  to  the  north  he  saw  a 
black  speck  moving  in  the  chaos  of  white.  It 
might  have  been  a  fox  coming  over  a  snow- 
dune  a  rifle-shot  away,  for  distances  are  elusive 
where  the  sky  and  the  earth  seem  to  meet  in  a 
cold  gray  rim  about  one ;  or  it  might  have  been 
a  musk-ox  or  a  caribou  at  a  greater  distance, 
but  the  longer  he  looked  the  more  convinced  he 
became  that  it  was  none  of  these — but  a  man. 
It  moved  slowly,  disappeared  for  a  few  minutes 
in  one  of  the  dips  of  the  plain,  and  came  into 
view  again  much  nearer.  This  time  he  made 
out  a  man,  and  behind,  a  sledge  and  dogs. 

"It's  Pierre,"  he  shivered,  closing  the  door 
and  coming  back  to  the  stove.    "I  wonder  what 
the  deuce  the  breed  will  say  when  he  finds  a 
stranger  here  and  his  grub  half  gone." 
206 


THE  FIGHT— A  STRANGE  VISITOR 

After  a  little  he  heard  the  shrill  creaking  of 
a  sledge  on  the  crust  outside  and  then  a  man's 
voice.  The  sounds  stopped  close  to  the  cabin 
and  were  followed  by  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"Come  in!"  cried  Philip,  and  in  the  same 
breath  it  flashed  upon  him  that  it  could  not  be 
the  breed,  and  that  it  must  be  a  mighty  partic 
ular  and  unusual  personage  to  knock  at  all. 

The  door  opened  and  a  man  came  in.  He 
was  a  little  man,  and  was  bundled  in  a  great 
beaver  overcoat  and  a  huge  beaver  cap  that 
concealed  all  of  his  face  but  his  eyes,  the  tip 
of  his  nose,  and  the  frozen  end  of  a  beard 
which  stuck  out  between  the  laps  of  his  turned- 
up  collar  like  a  horn.  For  all  the  world  he 
looked  like  a  diminutive  drum-major,  and 
Philip  rose  speechless,  his  pipe  still  in  his 
mouth,  as  his  strange  visitor  closed  the  door 
behind  him  and  approached. 

"Beg  pardon,"  said  the  stranger  in  a  smoth 
ered  voice,  walking  as  though  he  were  ice  to 
the  marrow  and  afraid  of  breaking  himself. 

207 


PHILIP    STEELE 

"It's  so  beastly  cold  that  I  have  taken  the  lib 
erty  of  dropping  in  to  get  warm." 

"It  is  cold — beastly  cold,"  replied  Philip,  em 
phasizing  the  word.  "It  was  down  to  sixty 
last  night.  Take  off  your  things." 

"Devil  of  a  country — this,"  shivered  the 
man,  unbuttoning  his  coat.  "I'd  rather  roast 
of  the  fever  than  freeze  to  death."  Philip 
limped  forward  to  assist  him,  and  the  stranger 
eyed  him  sharply  for  a  moment. 

"Limp  not  natural,"  he  said  quickly,  his 
voice  freeing  itself  at  last  from  the  depths  of 
his  coat  collar.  "Bandage  a  little  red,  eyes 
feverish,  lips  too  pale.  Sick,  or  hurt  ?" 

Philip  laughed  as  the  little  man  hopped  to 
the  stove  and  began  rubbing  his  hands. 

"Hurt,"  he  said.  "If  you  weren't  four  hun 
dred  miles  from  nowhere  I'd  say  that  you  were 
a  doctor." 

"So  I  am,"  said  the  other.  "Edward  Wal 
lace  Boffin,  M.  D.,  900  North  Wabash  Avenue, 
Chicago." 

208 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE  GREAT   LOVE   EXPERIMENT 

\ 

FOR  a  full  half  minute  after  the  other's 
words    Philip    stared    in    astonishment 
Then,  with  a  joyful  shout,  he  suddenly  reached 
out  his  hand  across  the  stove. 

"By  thunder,"  he  cried,  "you're  from  home !" 

"Home!"  exclaimed  the  other.  There  was  a 
startled  note  in  his  voice.  "You're — you're  a 
Chicago  man?"  he  asked,  staring  strangely  at 
Philip  and  gripping  his  hand  at  the  same  time. 

"Ever  hear  of  Steele — Philip  Egbert  Steele? 
I'm  his  son." 

"Good  Heavens!"  drawled  the  doctor,  gaz 
ing  still  harder  at  him  and  pinching  the  ice 
from  his  beard,  "what  are  you  doing  up  here  ?" 

"Prodigal  son,"  grinned  Philip.  "Waiting 
for  the  calf  to  get  good  and  fat.  What  are  you 
doing?" 

209 


PHILIP    STEELE 

"Making  a  fool  of  myself,"  replied  the  doc 
tor,  looking  at  the  top  of  the  stove  and  rubbing 
his  hands  until  his  fingers  snapped. 

At  the  North  Pole,  if  they  had  met  there, 
Philip  would  have  known  him  for  a  profes 
sional  man.  His  heavy  woolen  suit  was  tailor 
made.  He  wore  a  collar  and  a  fashionable  tie. 
A  lodge  signet  dangled  at  his  watch  chain.  He 
was  clean-shaven  and  his  blond  Van  Dyke 
beard  was  immaculately  trimmed.  Everything 
about  him,  from  the  top  of  his  head  to  the  bot 
tom  of  his  laced  boots,  shouted  profession,  even 
in  the  Arctic  snow.  He  might  have  gone  far 
ther  and  guessed  that  he  was  a  physician — a 
surgeon,  perhaps — from  his  hands,  and  from 
the  supple  manner  in  which  he  twisted  his  long 
white  fingers  about  one  another  over  the  stove. 
He  was  a  man  of  about  forty,  with  a  thin  sen 
sitive  face,  strong  rather  than  handsome,  and 
remarkable  eyes.  They  were  not  large,  nor  far 
apart,  but  were  like  twin  dynamos,  reflecting 
the  life  of  the  man  within.  They  were  the  sort 

210 


THE   GREAT   LOVE   EXPERIMENT 

of  eyes  which  Philip  had  always  associated 
with  great  mental  power. 

The  doctor  had  now  finished  rubbing  his 
hands,  and,  unbuttoning  his  under  coat,  he 
drew  a  small  silver  cigarette  case  from  his 
waistcoat  pocket. 

"They're  not  poison,"  he  smiled,  opening  it 
and  offering  the  cigarettes  to  Philip.  "I  have 
them  made  especially  for  myself."  A  sound 
outside  the  door  made  him  pause  with  a  lighted 
match  between  his  fingers.  "How  about  dogs 
and  Indian ?"  he  asked.  "May  they  come  in?" 

Philip  began  hobbling  toward  the  door. 

"So  exciting  to  meet  a  man  from  home  that 
I  forgot  all  about  'em,"  he  exclaimed. 

With  three  or  four  quick  steps  the  doctor 
overtook  him  and  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"Just  a  moment,"  he  said  quickly.  "How 
far  is  Fort  Smith  from  here?" 

"About  sixty  miles." 

"Do  you  suppose  I  could  get  there  without — 
his  assistance?" 

211 


PHILIP    STEELE 

"If  you're  willing  to  bunk  here  for  a  few 
days — yes,"  said  Philip.  "I'm  going  on  to 
Fort  Smith  myself  as  soon  as  I  am  able  to 
walk." 

An  expression  of  deep  relief  came  into  the 
doctor's  eyes. 

"That's  just  what  I  want,  Steele,"  he  ex 
claimed,  unfeignedly  delighted  at  Philip's  sug 
gestion.  "I'm  not  well,  and  I  require  a  little 
rest.  Call  him  in." 

No  sooner  had  the  Indian  entered  than  to 
Philip's  astonishment  the  little  doctor  began 
talking  rapidly  to  him  in  Cree.  The  guide's 
eyes  lighted  up  intelligently,  and  at  the  end  he 
replied  with  a  single  word,  nodded,  and 
grinned.  Philip  noticed  that  as  he  talked  a 
slight  flush  gathered  in  the  doctor's  smooth 
cheeks,  and  that  not  only  by  his  voice  but  by 
the  use  of  his  hands  as  well  he  seemed  anxious 
to  impress  upon  his  listener  the  importance  of 
what  he  was  saying. 

"He'll  start  back  for  Chippewayan  this  after- 
212 


THE    GREAT    LOVE    EXPERIMENT 

noon,"  he  explained  to  Philip  a  moment  later. 
"The  dogs  and  sledge  are  mine,  and  he  says 
that  he  can  make  it  easily  on  snow-shoes." 
Then  he  lighted  his  cigarette  and  added  sug 
gestively,  "He  can't  understand  English." 

The  Indian  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  Philip's 
belt  and  holster,  and  now  muttered  a  few  low 
words,  as  though  he  were  grumbling  at  the 
stove.  The  doctor  poised  his  cigarette  midway 
to  his  lips  and  looked  quickly  across  at  Philip. 

"Possibly  you  belong  to  the  Northwest 
Mounted  Police,"  he  suggested. 

"Yes." 

"Heavens,"  drawled  the  doctor  again,  "and 
you  the  son  of  a  millionaire  banker !  What  you 
doing  it  for?" 

"Fun,"  answered  Philip,  half  laughing. 
"And  I'm  not  getting  it  in  sugar-coated  pellet 
form  either,  Doctor.  I  came  up  here  to  get  a 
taan,  found  him,  and  was  gloriously  walloped 
for  my  trouble.  I'm  not  particularly  sorry, 
either.  Rather  glad  he  got  away." 
213 


PHILIP   STEELE 

"Why?"  asked  the  doctor. 

In  spite  of  their  short  acquaintance  Philip 
began  to  feel  a  sort  of  comradeship  for  the  man 
opposite  him. 

"Well,"  he  said  hesitatingly,  "you  see,  he 
was  one  of  those  criminals  who  are  made  crim 
inals.  Some  one  else  was  responsible — a  case 
of  one  man  suffering  because  of  another  man's 
sins." 

If  the  doctor  had  received  the  thrust  of  a  pin 
he  could  not  have  jumped  from  his  chair  with 
more  startling  suddenness  than  he  did  at 
Philip's  words. 

"That's  it !"  he  cried  excitedly,  beginning  to 
pace  back  and  forth  across  the  cabin  floor. 
"It's  more  than  a  theory — it's  a  truth — that 
people  suffer  more  because  of  other  people  than 
on  account  of  themselves.  We're  born  to  it 
and  we  keep  it  up,  inflicting  a  thousand  pricks 
and  a  thousand  sorrows  to  gain  one  selfish  end 
and  it  isn't  once  in  a  hundred  times  that  the 
boomerang  comes  home  and  strikes  the  right 
214 


THE   GREAT   LOVE   EXPERIMENT 

one  down.     But  when  it  does — when  it  does, 
sir—" 

As  suddenly  as  he  had  begun,  the  doctor 
stopped,  and  he  laughed  a  little  unnaturally. 
"Bosh !"  he  exclaimed.  "Let's  see  that  head  oi 
yours,  Steele.  Speaking  of  pains  and  pricks 
reminds  me  that,  being  a  surgeon,  I  may  be  of 
some  assistance  to  you." 

Philip  knew  that  he  had  checked  himself 
with  an  effort,  and  as  his  new  acquaintance  be 
gan  to  loosen  the  bandage  he  found  himself 
wondering  what  mysterious  mission  could  have 
sent  a  Chicago  surgeon  up  to  Fort  Smith.  The 
doctor  interrupted  his  thoughts. 

"Queer  place  for  a  blow,"  he  said  briskly. 
"Nothing  serious — slight  abrasion — trifle  fe» 
verish.  We'll  set  you  to  rights  immediately." 
He  bustled  to  his  greatcoat  and  from  one  of  the 
deep  pockets  drew  forth  a  leather  medicine 
case.  "Queer  place,  queer  place,"  he  chuckled, 
returning  with  a  vial  in  his  hand.  "Were  you 
running  when  it  happened  ?" 
215 


PHILIP   STEELE 

Philip  laughed  with  him,  and  by  the  time  the 
doctor  had  finished  he  had  given  him  an  ac 
count  of  his  affair  with  DeBar.  Not  until 
hours  later,  when  the  Cree  had  left  on  his  re 
turn  trip  and  they  sat  smoking  before  a  roaring 
fire  after  supper,  did  it  occur  to  him  how  confi 
dential  he  had  become.  Seldom  had  Philip 
met  a  man  who  impressed  him  as  did  the  little 
surgeon.  He  liked  him  immensely.  He  felt 
that  he  had  known  him  for  years  instead  of 
hours,  and  chatted  freely  of  his  adventures  and 
asked  a  thousand  questions  about  home.  He 
found  that  the  doctor  was  even  better  ac 
quainted  with  his  home  city  than  himself,  and 
that  he  knew  many  people  whom  he  knew,  and 
lived  in  a  fashionable  quarter.  He  was  puzzled 
even  as  they  talked  and  laughed  and  smoked 
their  cigarettes  and  pipes.  The  doctor  said 
nothing  about  himself  or  his  personal  affairs, 
and  cleverly  changed  the  conversation  when 
ever  it  threatened  to  drift  in  that  direction. 

It  was  late  when  Philip  rose  from  his  chair, 
216 


THE   GREAT   LOVE   EXPERIMENT 

suggesting  that  they  go  to  bed.  He  laughed 
frankly  across  into  the  other's  face. 

"Boffin  —  Boffin  —  Boffin,"  he  mused. 
"Strange  I've  never  heard  of  you  down  south, 
Doctor.  Now  what  the  deuce  can  you  be  doing 
up  here?" 

There  was  a  point-blank  challenge  in  his 
eyes.  The  doctor  leaned  a  little  toward  him,  as 
if  about  to  speak,  but  caught  himself.  For 
several  moments  his  keen  eyes  gazed  squarely 
into  Philip's,  and  when  he  broke  the  silence  the 
same  nervous  flush  that  Philip  had  noticed  be 
fore  rose  into  his  cheeks. 

"I  know  your  father,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a 
low,  restrained  voice.  "I  know  him  well,  and 
of  course  I  read  what  the  papers  said  when  you 
broke  away  from  society  to  go  roughing  it 
down  in  South  America.  I  believe  you're  hon 
est — on  the  square." 

Philip  stared  at  him  in  amazement. 

"If  I  didn't,"  he  went  on,  rubbing  his  hands 
again  over  the  stove,  "I'd  follow  your  sugges- 
217 


PHILIP    STEELE 

tion,  and  go  to  bed.  As  it  is,  I'm  going  to  tell 
you  why  I'm  up  here,  on  your  word  of  honor 
to  maintain  secrecy.  I've  got  a  selfish  end  in 
view,  for  you  may  be  able  to  assist  me.  But 
nothing  must  go  beyond  yourself.  What  do 
you  say  to  the  condition  ?" 

"I  will  not  break  your  confidence — uniess 
you  have  murdered  some  one,"  laughed  Philip, 
stooping  to  light  a  fresh  pipe.  "In  that  event 
you'd  better  keep  quiet,  as  I'd  have  to  haul  you 
back  to  headquarters." 

He  did  not  see  the  deepening  of  the  flush  in 
the  other's  face. 

"Good,"  said  the  doctor.  "Sit  down,  Steele. 
I  take  it  for  granted  that  you  will  help  me — if 
you  can.  First  I  suppose  I  ought  to  confess 
that  my  name  is  not  Boffin,  but  McGill — Dud 
ley  McGill,  professor  of  neurology  and  diseases 
of  the  brain — " 

Philip   almost    dropped   his   pipe.      "Great 
Scott,   and   it  was  you  who  wrote — "     He 
stopped,  staring  in  amazement. 
218 


THE   GREAT   LOVE   EXPERIMENT 

"Yes,  it  was  I  who  wrote  Freda,  if  that's 
what  you  refer  to,"  finished  the  doctor.  "It 
caused  a  little  sensation,  as  you  may  know,  and 
nearly  got  me  ousted  from  the  college.  But  it 
sold  up  to  two  hundred  thousand  copies,  so  it 
wasn't  a  bad  turn,"  he  added. 

"It  was  published  while  I  was  away,"  said 
Philip.  "I  got  a  copy  in  Rio  Janeiro,  and  it 
haunted  me  for  weeks  after  I  read  it.  Great 
Heaven,  you  can't  believe — " 

"I  did,"  interrupted  the  doctor  sharply.  "I 
believed  everything  that  I  wrote — and  more. 
It  was  my  theory  of  life."  He  sprang  from 
his  chair  and  began  walking  back  and  forth  in 
his  quick,  excited  way.  The  flush  had  gone 
from  his  face  now  and  was  replaced  by  a 
strange  paleness.  His  lips  were  tense,  the  fin 
gers  of  his  hands  tightly  clenched,  his  voice 
was  quick,  sharp,  incisive  when  he  spoke. 

"It  was  my  theory  of  life,"  he  repeated  al 
most  fiercely,  "and  that  is  the  beginning  of  why 
I  am  up  here.  My  theory  was  that  there  existed 
219 


PHILIP    STEELE 

no  such  thing  as  'the  divine  spark  of  love'  be 
tween  men  and  women  not  related  by  blood,  no 
reaching  out  of  one  soul  for  another — no  faith, 
no  purity,  no  union  between  man  and  woman 
but  that  could  be  broken  by  low  passions.  My 
theory  was  that  man  and  woman  were  but  ma 
chines,  and  that  passion,  and  not  the  love 
which  we  dream  and  read  of,  united  these 
machines;  and  that  every  machine,  whether  it 
was  a  man  or  a  woman,  could  be  broken  and 
destroyed  in  a  moral  sense  by  some  other  ma 
chine  of  the  opposite  sex — if  conditions  were 
right.  Do  you  understand  me?  My  theory 
was  destructive  of  homes,  of  happiness,  of 
moral  purity.  It  was  bad.  I  argued  my  point 
in  medical  journals,  and  I  wrote  a  book  based 
on  it.  But  I  lacked  proof,  the  actual  proof  of 
experience.  So  I  set  out  to  experiment." 

He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  now  that  Philip 
Aras  in  the  room,  and  went  on  bitterly,  as  if 
arraigning  himself  for  something  which  he  had 
not  yet  disclosed. 

220 


THE   GREAT   LOVE   EXPERIMENT 

"It  made  me  a — a — almost  a  criminal,"  he 
continued.  "I  had  no  good  thoughts  for  hu 
manity,  beyond  my  small  endeavors  in  my 
little  field  of  science.  I  was  a  machine  myself, 
cold,  passionless,  caring  little  for  women — thus 
proving,  if  I  had  stopped  to  consider  myself, 
the  unreasonableness  of  my  own  theory.  Coolly 
and  without  a  thought  of  the  consequences,  I 
set  out  to  prove  myself  right.  When  I  think  of 
it  now  my  action  appals  me.  It  was  heinous, 
for  the  mere  proving  of  my  theory  meant  mis 
ery  and  unhappiness  for  those  who  were  to 
prove  it  to  me.  I  was  not  cramped  for  money. 
So  I  determined  to  experiment  with  six  ma 
chines — three  young  men  and  three  young 
women.  I  planned  that  each  person  should  be 
unconscious  of  the  part  he  or  she  was  playing, 
and  that  each  pair  should  be  thrown  constantly 
together — not  in  society,  mind  you,  for  my  the 
ory  was  that  conditions  must  be  right. 
Through  a  trusted  and  highly  paid  agent  I  hired 
my  people — the  men.  Through  another,  who 

221 


PHILIP    STEELE 

was  a  woman,  I  hired  those  of  the  opposite  sex. 
One  of  the  young  women  was  sent  to  an  ob 
scure  little  place  a  hundred  miles  back  from  the 
Brazilian  coast,  ostensibly  to  act  as  governess 
for  the  children  of  an  American  family  which 
did  not  exist.  To  this  same  place,  through  the 
other  agent,  was  sent  a  man,  whose  duty  was  to 
get  information  about  the  country  for  a  party 
of  capitalists.  Do  you  begin  to  understand 
now?" 

"Yes,  I  begin  to  understand,"  said  Philip. 

"This  place  to  which  they  went  was  made  up 
of  a  dozen  or  so  hovels,"  continued  the  doctor, 
resuming  his  nervous  walk.  "There  was  no 
one  there  who  could  talk  or  understand  their 
language  but  these  two.  The  consequence — 
conditions  were  right.  They  would  be  con 
stantly  together.  They  would  either  prove  or 
disprove  my  theory  that  men  and  women  were 
but  machines  of  passion.  I  knew  that  they 
would  stay  at  this  place  during  the  three 
months  I  had  allotted  for  my  experiment,  for  I 
222 


THE    GREAT    LOVE    EXPERIMENT 

paid  them  a  high  price.  The  girl,  when  she 
found  no  American  family,  was  told  to  wait 
until  they  arrived.  The  man,  of  course,  had 
plenty  of  supposed  work  to  keep  him  there." 

"I  understand,"  repeated  Philip. 

"The  second  couple,"  continued  the  doctor, 
forcing  himself  into  a  chair  opposite  Philip, 
"were  in  a  similar  way  sent  up  here — to  an  ob 
scure  northern  post  which  I  have  reason  for  not 
naming.  And  the  third  couple  went  to  a  fever 
ish  district  down  in  Central  America." 

He  rose  from  his  chair  again,  and  Philip  was 
silent  while  the  doctor  went  to  his  great-coat 
and  from  somewhere  within  its  depths  brought 
out  fresh  cigarettes.  His  hand  trembled 
slightly  as  he  lighted  one  and  the  flare  of  the 
match,  playing  for  an  instant  on  his  face,  em 
phasized  the  nervous  tension  which  he  was 
under. 

"I  suppose  you  think  it  all  very  strange — and 
idiotic,"  he  said,  after  a  few  moments.  "But 
we  frequently  do  strange  things,  and  apparently 
223 


PHILIP    STEELE 

senseless  ones,  in  scientific  work.  Madmen 
have  made  the  world's  greatness.  Our  most 
wonderful  inventors,  our  greatest  men  of  all 
ages,  have  in  a  way  been  insane — for  they  have 
been  abnormal,  and  what  is  that  but  a  certain 
form  of  insanity?" 

He  looked  at  Philip  through  his  cigarette 
smoke  as  if  expecting  a  reply,  but  Philip  only 
wet  his  lips,  and  remained  silent. 

"I  got  six  months'  leave  of  absence,"  he  re 
sumed,  "and  set  out  to  see  the  results  of  my 
experiments.  First  I  went  to  Rio,  and  from 
there  to  the  place  where  the  first  couple  had 
gone.  As  a  consequence,  five  weeks  passed  be 
tween  the  date  of  the  last  letters  of  my  experi 
menters  and  the  day  I  joined  them.  Heavens, 
man!  When  I  made  it  known  that  I  wanted 
them,  where  do  you  think  they  took  me?"  He 
dropped  his  half-burned  cigarette  and  his  voice 
was  husky  as  he  turned  on  Philip.  "Where — 
where  do  you  think  they  took  me?"  he  de 
manded. 

224 


THE   GREAT   LOVE   EXPERIMENT 

"God  knows!"  exclaimed  Philip,  tremu 
lously.  "Where?" 

"To  two  freshly  made  graves  just  outside  the 
village,"  groaned  the  doctor.  "I  learned  their 
story  after  a  little.  The  girl,  finding  herself 
useless  there,  had  begun  to  teach  the  little  chil 
dren.  I'm — I'm — going  to  skip  quickly  over 
this."  His  voice  broke  to  a  whisper.  "She 
was  an  angel.  The  poor  half-naked  women 
told  me  that  through  my  interpreter.  The  chil 
dren  cried  for  her  when  she  died.  The  men 
had  brought  flowering  trees  from  miles  away 
to  shade  her  grave — and  the  other.  They  had 
met,  as  I  had  planned — the  man  and  the  girl, 
but  it  didn't  turn  out — my  way.  It  was  a  beau 
tiful  love,  I  believe,  as  pure  and  sweet  as  any  in 
the  whole  world.  They  say  that  they  made  the 
whole  village  happy,  and  that  each  Sunday  the 
girl  and  the  man  would  sing  to  them  beautiful 
songs  which  they  could  not  understand,  but 
which  made  even  the  sick  smile  with  happiness. 
tt  was  a  low,  villainous  place  for  a  village,  half 
225 


PHILIP   STEELE 

encircled  by  a  swampy  river,  and  the  terriblt 
heat  of  the  summer  sun  brought  with  it  a 
strange  sickness.  It  was  a  deadly,  fatal  sick 
ness,  and  many  died,  and  always  there  were  the 
man  and  the  girl,  working  and  singing  and 
striving  to  do  good  through  all  the  hours  of 
day  and  night.  What  need  is  there  of  saying 
more?"  the  doctor  cried,  his  voice  choking  him. 
"What  need  to  say  more — except  that  the  man 
went  first,  and  that  the  girl  died  a  week  later, 
and  that  they  were  buried  side  by  side  under 
the  mangum  trees  ?  What  need — unless  it  is  to 
say  that  I  am  their  murderer?" 

"There  have  been  many  mistakes  made  in  the 
name  of  science,"  said  Philip,  clearing  his 
throat.  "This  was  one.  Your  theory  was 
wrong." 

"Yes,  it  was  wrong,"  said  the  doctor,  more 
gently.  "I  saved  myself  by  killing  them.  My 
theory  died  with  them,  and  as  fast  as  I  could 
travel  I  hurried  to  that  other  place  in  Central 
America." 

226 


THE   GREAT   LOVE   EXPERIMENT 

A  soft  glow  entered  into  his  eyes  now,  and 
he  came  around  the  stove  and  took  one  of 
Philip's  hands  between  his  own,  and  looked 
steadily  down  into  his  face,  while  there  came  a 
curious  twitching  about  the  muscles  of  his 
throat. 

"Nothing  had  happened,"  he  said,  barely 
above  a  whisper.  "I  found  her,  and  I  thank 
God  for  that.  I  loved  her,  and  my  theory  was 
doubly  shattered,  a  thousand  times  cursed.  She 
is  my  wife,  and  I  am  the  happiest  of  men — ex 
cept  for  these  haunting  memories.  Before  I 
married  her  I  told  her  all,  and  together  we  have 
tried  to  make  restitution  for  my  crime,  for  I 
shall  always  deem  it  such.  I  found  that  the 
man  who  died  was  supporting  a  mother,  and 
that  the  girl's  parents  lived  on  a  little  mort 
gaged  farm  in  Michigan.  We  sent  the  mother 
ten  thousand  dollars,  and  the  parents  the  same. 
jWe  have  built  a  little  church  in  the  village 
where  they  died.  The  third  couple,"  finished 
the  doctor,  dropping  Philip's  hand,  "came  up 
227 


PHILIP    STEELE 

here.  When  I  got  back  from  the  south  I  found 
that  several  of  my  checks  had  been  returned.  I 
wrote  letter  after  letter,  but  could  find  no  trace 
of  these  last  of  my  experimenters.  I  sent  an 
agent  into  the  North  and  he  returned  withouv 
news  of  them.  They  had  never  appeared  at 
Fort  Smith.  And  now — I  have  come  up  to 
hunt  for  them  myself.  Perhaps,  in  your  future 
wanderings,  you  may  be  of  some  assistance  to 
me.  That  is  why  I  have  told  you  this — with 
the  hope  that  you  will  help  me,  if  you  can." 

With  a  flash  of  his  old,  quick  coolness  the 
doctor  turned  to  one  of  Pierre  Thoreau's  bunks. 

"Now,"  he  said,  with  a  strained  laugh,  "I'll 
follow  your  suggestion  and  go  to  bed.  Good 
night." 


228 


CHAPTER    XIV 

WHAT  CAME  OF  THE  GREAT  LOVE  EXPERIMENT 

FOR  an  hour  after  he  had  gone  to  bed  Philip 
lay  awake  thinking  of  the  doctor's  story. 
He  dreamed  of  it  when  he  fell  asleep.  In  a  way 
for  which  he  could  not  account,  the  story  had  a 
peculiar  effect  upon  him,  and  developed  in  him 
a  desire  to  know  the  end.  He  awoke  in  the 
morning  anxious  to  resume  the  subject  with 
McGill,  but  the  doctor  disappointed  him.  Dur 
ing  the  whole  of  the  day  he  made  no  direct  ref 
erence  to  his  mission  in  the  North,  and  when 
Philip  once  or  twice  brought  him  back  to  the 
matter  he  evaded  any  discussion  of  it,  giving 
him  to  understand,  without  saying  so,  that  the 
matter  was  a  closed  incident  between  them, 
only  to  be  reopened  when  he  was  able  to  give 
some  help  in  the  search.  The  doctor  talked 
229 


PHILIP    STEELE 

freely  of  his  home,  of  the  beauty  and  the  good 
ness  of  his  wife,  and  of  a  third  member  whom 
they  expected  in  their  little  family  circle  in  the 
spring.  They  discussed  home  topics — politics, 
clubs  and  sport.  The  doctor  disliked  society, 
though  for  professional  reasons  he  was  com 
pelled  to  play  a  small  part  in  it,  and  in  this  dis 
like  the  two  men  found  themselves  on  common 
ground.  They  became  more  and  more  confi 
dential  in  all  ways  but  one.  They  passed  hours 
in  playing  cribbage  with  a  worn  pack  of 
Pierre's  cards,  and  the  third  night  sang  old 
college  songs  which  both  had  nearly  forgotten. 
It  was  on  this  evening  that  they  planned  to  re 
main  one  more  day  in  Pierre's  cabin  and  then 
leave  for  Fort  Smith. 

"You  have  hope — there,"  said  Philip  in  a 
casual  way,  as  they  were  undressing. 

"Little  hope,  but  the  search  will  begin  from 
there,"  replied  the  doctor.    "I  have  more  hope 
at  Chippewayan,  where  we  struck  a  clew.    I 
sent  back  my  Indian  to  follow  it  up." 
230 


WHAT  CAME  OF  THE  EXPERIMENT 

They  went  to  bed.  How  long  he  had  slept 
Philip  had  no  idea,  when  he  was  awakened  by 
a  slight  noise.  In  a  sub-conscious  sort  of  way, 
with  his  eyes  still  closed,  he  lay  without  mov 
ing  and  listened.  The  sound  came  again,  like 
the  soft,  cautious  tread  of  feet  near  him.  Still 
without  moving  he  opened  his  eyes.  The  oil 
lamp  which  he  had  put  out  on  retiring  was  burn 
ing  low.  In  its  dim  light  stood  the  doctor,  half 
dressed,  in  a  tense  attitude  of  listening. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Philip. 

The  professor  started,  and  turned  toward  the 
stove. 

"Nervousness,  I  guess,"  he  said  gloomily. 
"I  was  afraid  I  would  awaken  you.  I've  been 
up  three  times  during  the  last  hour — listening 
for  a  voice." 

"A  voice?" 

"Yes,  back  there  in  the  bunk  I  could  have 
sworn  that  I  heard  it  calling  somewhere  out  in 
the  night.    But  when  I  get  up  I  can't  hear  it. 
I've  stood  at  the  door  until  I'm  frozen." 
231 


PHILIP    STEELE 

"It's  the  wind,"  said  Philip.  "It  has  troubled 
me  many  times  out  on  the  snow  plains.  I've 
heard  it  wail  like  children  crying  among  the 
dunes,  and  again  like  women  screaming,  and 
men  shouting.  You'd  better  go  to  bed." 

"Listen!" 

The  doctor  stiffened,  his  white  face  turned  to 
the  door. 

"Good  Heavens,  was  that  the  wind?"  he 
asked  after  a  moment. 

Philip  had  rolled  from  his  bunk  and  was 
pulling  on  his  clothes. 

"Dress  and  we'll  find  out,"  he  advised. 

Together  they  went  to  the  door,  opened  it, 
and  stepped  outside.  The  sky  was  thick  and 
heavy,  with  only  a  white  blurr  where  the  moon 
was  smothered.  Fifty  yards  away  the  gray 
gloom  became  opaque.  Over  the  thousand 
miles  of  drift  to  the  north  there  came  a  faint 
whistling  wind,  rising  at  times  in  fitful  sweeps 
of  flinty  snow,  and  at  intervals  dying  away 
until  it  became  only  a  lulling  sound.  In  one  of 
232 


WHAT  CAME  OF  THE  EXPERIMENT 

these  intervals  both  men  held  their  breath. 
From  somewhere  out  of  the  night,  and  yet 
from  nowhere  that  they  could  point,  there 
came  a  human  voice. 

"Pier-r-r-r-e  Thoreau — Pier-r-r-r-e  Thoreau 
— Ho,  Pierre  Thoreau-u-u-u !" 

"Off  there !"  shivered  the  doctor. 

"No — out  there !"  said  Philip. 

He  raised  his  own  voice  in  an  answering 
shout,  and  in  response  there  came  again  the  cry 
for  Pierre  Thoreau. 

"I'm  right!"  cried  the  doctor.    "Come!" 

He  darted  away,  his  greatcoat  making  a  dark 
blur  in  the  night  ahead  of  Philip,  who  paused 
again  to  shout  through  the  megaphone  of  his 
hands.  There  came  no  reply.  A  second  and  a 
third  time  he  shouted,  and  still  there  was  no 
response. 

"Queer,"  he  thought.  "What  the  devil  can 
it  mean?" 

The  doctor  had  disappeared,  and  he  followed 
in  the  direction  he  had  gone.    A  hundred  yards 
233 


PHILIP    STEELE 

more  and  he  saw  the  dark  blur  again,  close  to 
the  ground.  The  doctor  was  bending  over  a 
human  form  stretched  out  in  the  snow. 

"Just  in  time,"  he  said  to  Philip  as  he  came 
up.  Excitement  had  gone  from  his  voice  now. 
It  was  cool  and  professional,  and  he  spoke  in 
a  commanding  way  to  his  companion.  "You're 
heavier  than  I,  so  take  him  by  the  shoulders  and 
hold  his  head  well  up.  I  don't  believe  it's  the 
cold,  for  his  body  is  warm  and  comfortable.  I 
feel  something  wet  and  thick  on  his  shirt,  and 
it  may  be  blood.  So  hold  his  head  well  up." 

Between  them  they  carried  him  back  to  the 
cabin,  and  with  the  quick  alertness  of  a  man 
accustomed  to  every  emergency  of  his  profes 
sion  the  doctor  stripped  off  his  two  coats  while 
Philip  looked  at  the  face  of  the  man  whom  they 
had  placed  in  his  bunk.  His  own  experience 
had  acquainted  him  with  violence  and  blood- 
sned,  but  in  spite  of  that  fact  he  shuddered 
slightly  as  he  gazed  on  the  unconscious  form. 
It  was  that  of  a  young  man  of  splendid 
234 


WHAT  CAME  OF  THE  EXPERIMENT 

physique,  with  a  closely  shaven  face,  short 
blond  hair,  and  a  magnificent  pair  of  shoulders. 
Beyond  the  fact  that  he  knew  the  face  wore  no 
beard  he  could  scarce  have  told  if  it  were  white 
or  black.  From  chin  to  hair  it  was  covered 
with  stiffened  blood. 

The  doctor  came  to  his  side. 

"Looks  bad,  doesn't  he  ?"  he  said  '_uet  rf ully. 
"Thought  it  wasn't  the  cold.  TIeart  beating  too 
fast,  pulse  too  active.  Ah-  —hot  water  if  you 
please,  Philip !" 

He  loosened  the  man's  coat  c^d  shirt,  and  a 
few  moments  later,  when  Philip  brought  a 
towel  and  a  basin  of  water,  he  rose  from  his 
examination. 

"Just  in  time — as  I  said  before,"  he  ex 
claimed  with  satisfaction.  "You'd  never  have 
heard  another  'Pierre  Thoreau'  out  of  him, 
Philip,"  he  went  on,  speaking  the  young  man's 
name  as  if  he  had  been  accustomed  to  doing  it 
for  a  long  time.  "Wound  on  the  head — skull 
sound — loss  of  blood  from  over-exertion.  We'll 

235 


PHILIP    STEELE 

fcave  him  drinking  coffee  within  an  hour  if 
you'll  make  some." 

The  doctor  rolled  up  his  shirt  sleeves  and  be 
gan  to  wash  away  the  blood. 

"A  good-looking  chap,"  he  said  over  his 
shoulder.  "Face  clean  cut,  fine  mouth,  a 
frontal  bone  that  must  have  brain  behind  it, 
square  chin — "  He  broke  off  to  ask :  "What 
do  you  suppose  happened  to  him?" 

"Haven't  got  the  slightest  idea,"  said  Philip, 
putting  the  coffee  pot  on  the  stove.  "A  blow, 
isn't  it?" 

Philip  was  turning  up  the  wick  of  the  lamp 
when  a  sudden  startled  cry  came  from  the  bed 
side.  Something  in  it,  low  and  suppressed, 
made  him  turn  so  quickly  that  by  a  clumsy  twist 
of  his  fingers  the  lamp  was  extinguished.  He 
lighted  it  again  and  faced  the  doctor.  McGill 
was  upon  his  knees,  terribly  pale. 

"Good  Heaven!"  he  gasped.  "What's  the 
matter?" 

"Nothing,  nothing,  Phil— it  was  he!  He  let 
236 


WHAT  CAME  OF  THE  EXPERIMENT 

it  out  of  him  so  unexpectedly  that  it  startled 
me." 

"I  thought  it  was  your  voice,"  said  Philip. 

"No,  no,  it  was  his.  See,  he  is  returning  to) 
consciousness." 

The  wounded  man's  eyes  opened  slowly,  and 
closed  again.  He  heaved  a  great  sigh  and 
stretched  out  his  arms  as  if  about  to  awaken 
from  a  deep  slumber.  The  doctor  sprang  to  his 
feet. 

"We  must  have  ice,  Phil — finely  chopped  ice 
from  the  creek  down  there.  Will  you  take  the 
ax  and  those  two  pails  and  bring  back  both  pails 
full?  No  hurry,  but  we'll  need  it  within  an 
hour." 

Philip  bundled  himself  in  his  coat  and  went 
out  with  the  ax  and  pails. 

"Ice !"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "Now  what 
can  he  want  of  ice?" 

He  dug  down  through  three  feet  of  snow 
and  chopped  for  half  an  hour.  When  he  re 
turned  to  the  cabin  the  wounded  man  was 
237 


PHILIP    STEELE 

bolstered  up  in  bed,  and  the  doctor  was  pacing 
back  and  forth  across  the  room,  evidently 
worked  to  a  high  pitch  of  excitement. 

"Murder — robbery — outrage!  Right  under 
our  noses,  that's  what  it  was !"  he  cried.  "Pierre 
Thoreau  is  dead — killed  by  the  scoundrels  who 
'eft  this  man  for  dead  beside  him!  They  set 
upon  them  late  yesterday  afternoon  as  Pierre 
and  his  partner  were  coming  home,  intending 
to  kill  them  for  their  outfit.  The  murderers, 
who  are  a  breed  and  a  white  trapper,  have  prob 
ably  gone  to  their  shack  half  a  dozen  miles  up 
the  creek.  Now,  Mr.  Philip  Steele,  here's  a 
little  work  for  you !" 

MacGregor  himself  had  never  stirred  Philip 
Steele's  blood  as  did  the  doctor's  unexpected 
words,  but  the  two  men  watching  him  saw  noth 
ing  unusual  in  their  effect.  He  set  down  his  ice 
and  coolly  took  off  his  coat,  then  advanced  to 
the  side  of  the  wounded  man. 

"I'm  glad  you're  better,"  he  said,  looking 
down  into  the  other's  strong,  pale  face.  "It  was 
238 


WHAT  CAME  OF  THE  EXPERIMENT 

a  pretty  close  shave.    Guess  you  were  a  little 
out  of  your  head,  weren't  you?" 

For  an  instant  the  man's  eyes  shifted  past 
Philip  to  where  the  doctor  was  standing 

"Yes — I  must  have  been.  He  says  I  was 
calling  for  Pierre,  and  Pierre  was  dead.  I  left 
him  ten  miles  back  there  in  the  snow."  He 
closed  his  eyes  with  a  groan  of  pain  and  con 
tinued,  after  a  moment,  "Pierre  and  I  have  been 
trapping  foxes.  We  were  coming  back  with 
supplies  to  last  us  until  late  spring  when — it 
happened.  The  white  man's  name  is  Dobson, 
and  there's  a  breed  with  him.  Their  shack  is 
six  or  seven  miles  up  the  creek." 

Philip  saw  the  doctor  examining  a  revolver 
which  he  had  taken  from  the  pocket  of  his  big 
coat.  He  came  over  to  the  btmkside  with  it 
in  his  hand. 

"That's  enough,  Phil,"  he  said  softly.  "He 
must  not  talk  any  more  for  an  hour  or  two  or 
we'll  have  him  in  a  fever.  Get  on  your  coat 
I'm  going  with  you." 

239 


PHILIP    STEELE 

"I'm  going  alone,"  said  Phil  shortly.  "You 
attend  to  your  patient."  He  drank  a  cup  of 
coffee,  ate  a  piece  of  toasted  bannock,  and  with 
the  first  gray  breaking  of  dawn  started  up  the 
creek  on  a  pair  of  Pierre's  old  snow-shoes.  The 
doctor  followed  him  to  the  creek  and  watched 
him  until  he  was  out  of  sight. 

The  wounded  man  was  sitting  on  the  edge 
of  the  cot  when  McGill  reentered  the  cabin. 
His  exertion  had  brought  a  flush  of  color  back 
into  his  face,  which  lighted  up  with  a  smile  as 
the  other  came  through  the  door. 

"It  was  a  close  shave,  thanks  to  you,"  he 
said,  repeating  Philip's  words. 

"Just  so,"  replied  the  doctor.  He  had  placed 
a  brace  of  short  bulldog  revolvers  on  the  table 
and  offered  one  of  them  now  to  his  companion. 
""The  shaving  isn't  over  yet,  Falkner." 

They  ate  breakfast,  each  with  a  gun  beside 
his  tin  plate.  Now  and  then  the  doctor  inter 
rupted  his  meal  to  go  to  the  door  and  peer  over 
the  broadening  vista  of  the  barrens.  They  had 
240 


WHAT  CAME  OF  THE  EXPERIMENT 

nearly  finished  when  he  came  back  from  one  of 
these  observations,  his  lips  set  a  little  tighter,  a 
barely  perceptible  tremor  in  his  voice  when  he 
spoke. 

"They're  coming,  Falkner!" 

They  picked  up  their  revolvers  and  the  doc 
tor  buttoned  his  coat  tight  up  about  his  neck. 
For  ten  minutes  they  sat  silent  and  listening. 
Not  until  the  crunching  beat  of  snow-shoes 
came  to  their  ears  did  the  doctor  move.  Thrust 
ing  his  weapon  into  his  coat  pocket,  he  went 
to  the  door.  Falkner  followed  him,  and  stood 
well  out  of  sight  when  he  opened  it.  Two  men 
and  a  dog  team  were  crossing  the  opening. 
McGill's  dogs  were  fastened  under  a  brush 
lean-to  built  against  the  cabin,  and  as  the  rival 
team  of  huskies  began  filling  the  air  with  their 
clamor  for  a  fight,  the  stranger  team  halted  and 
one  of  the  two  men  came  forward  alone.  He 
stopped  with  some  astonishment  before  the 
aristocratic-looking  little  man  waiting  for  him 
in  Pierre's  doorway. 

241 


PHILIP    STEELE 

"Is  Pierre  Thoreau  at  home  ?"  he  demanded. 

"I'm  a  stranger  here,  so  I  can  not  say,"  re 
plied  the  doctor,  inspecting  the  questioner  with 
marked  coolness.  "It  is  possible,  however,  that 
he  is — for  I  picked  up  a  man  half  dead  out  in 
the  snow  last  night,  and  I'm  waiting  for  him  to 
come  back  to  life.  A  smooth-faced,  blond  fel 
low,  with  a  cut  on  his  head.  It  may  be  this 
Pierre  Thoreau." 

The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  his  mouth 
when  the  man  kicked  off  his  snow-shoes  and 
with  an  excited  wave  of  his  arm  to  his  com 
panion  with  the  dogs,  almost  ran  past  the  doc 
tor. 

"It's  him — the  man  I  want  to  see !"  he  cried 
in  a  low  voice.  "My  name's  Dobson,  of  the — " 

What  more  he  had  meant  to  say  was  never 
finished.  Falkner's  powerful  arms  had  gripped 
his  head  and  throat  in  a  vise-like  clutch  from 
which  no  smother  of  sound  escaped,  and  three 
or  four  minutes  later,  when  the  second  man 
came  through  the  door,  he  found  his  comrade 
242 


WHAT  CAME  OF  THE  EXPERIMENT 

flat  on  his  back,  bound  and  gagged,  and  the 
shining  muzzles  of  two  short  and  murderous- 
looking  revolvers  leveled  at  his  breast.  He  was 
d  swarthy  breed,  scarcely  larger  than  the  doc 
tor  himself,  and  his  only  remonstrance  as  his 
hands  were  fastened  behind  his  back  was  a 
brief  outburst  of  very  bad  and  very  excited 
French  which  the  professor  stopped  with  a 
threatening  flourish  of  his  gun. 

"You'll  do,"  he  said,  standing  off  to  survey 
his  prisoner.  "I  believe  you're  harmless  enough 
to  have  the  use  of  your  legs  and  mouth."  With 
a  comic  bow  the  little  doctor  added,  "M'sieur, 
I'm  going  to  ask  you  to  drive  us  back  to  Fort 
Smith,  and  if  you  so  much  as  look  the  wrong 
way  out  of  your  eyes  I'll  blow  off  your  head. 
You  and  your  friend  are  to  answer  for  the  kill 
ing  of  Pierre  Thoreau  and  for  the  attempted 
murder  of  this  young  man,  who  will  follow  us 
to  Fort  Smith  to  testify  against  you." 

It  was  evident  that  the  half-breed  did  not 
understand,  and  the  doctor  added  a  few  explan- 

243 


PHILIP    STEELE 

atory  words  in  French.  The  man  on  the  floor 
groaned  and  struggled  until  he  was  red  in 
the  face. 

"Easy,  easy,"  soothed  the  doctor.  "I  appre 
ciate  the  fact  that  it  is  pretty  tough  luck,  Dob- 
son,  but  you'll  have  to  take  your  medicine. 
Falkner,  if  you'll  lend  a  hand  in  getting  me  off 
I  won't  lose  much  time  in  starting  for  Fort 
Smith." 

It  was  a  strange-looking  outfit  that  set  out 
from  Pierre  Thoreau's  cabin  half  an  hour  later. 
Ahead  of  the  team  which  had  come  that  morn 
ing  walked  the  breed,  his  left  arm  bound  to  his 
side  with  a  babiche  thong.  On  the  sledge  be- 
hind  him  lay  an  inanimate  and  blanket- 
wrapped  bundle,  which  was  Dobson ;  and  close 
at  the  rear  of  the  sledge,  stripped  of  his  great 
coat  and  more  than  ever  like  a  diminutive 
drum-major,  followed  Dudley  McGill,  profes 
sor  of  neurology  and  diseases  of  the  brain, 
with  a  bulldog  revolver  in  his  mittened  hand. 

From  the  door  Falkner  watched  them  go. 
244 


WHAT  CAME  OF  THE  EXPERIMENT 

Six  hours  later  Philip  returned  from  the 
east.  Falkner  saw  him  coming  up  from  the 
creek  and  went  to  meet  him. 

"I  found  the  cabin,  but  no  one  was  there," 
3aid  Philip.  "It  has  been  deserted  for  a  long 
time.  No  tracks  in  the  snow,  everything  inside 
frozen  stiff,  and  what  signs  I  did  find  were  of 
a  woman !" 

The  muscles  of  Falkner's  face  gave  a  sudden 
twitch.  "A  woman !"  he  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  a  woman,"  repeated  Philip,  "and  there 
was  a  photograph  of  her  on  a  table  in  the  bed 
room.  Did  this  Dobson  have  a  wife?" 

Falkner  had  fallen  a  step  behind  him  as  they 
entered  the  cabin. 

"A  long  time  ago — a  woman  was  there,"  he 
said.  "She  was  a  young  woman,  and — and 
almost  beautiful.  But  she  wasn't  his  wife." 

"She  was  pretty,"  replied  Philip,  "so  pretty 
'hat  I  brought  her  picture  along  for  my  col 
lection  at  home."  He  looked  about  for  McGilL 
"Where's/ he  doctor?" 

245 


PHILIP    STEELE 

Falkner's  face  was  very  white  as  he  ex 
plained  what  had  happened  during  the  other's 
absence. 

"He  said  that  he  would  camp  early  this  after 
noon  so  that  you  could  overtake  them,"  he  fin 
ished  after  he  had  described  the  capture  and  the 
doctor's  departure.  "The  doctor  thought  you 
would  want  to  lose  no  time  in  getting  the  pris 
oners  to  Fort  Smith,  and  that  he  could  get  a 
good  start  before  night.  To-morrow  or  the 
next  day  I  am  going  to  follow  with  the  other 
team.  I'd  go  with  you  if  he  hadn't  commanded 
me  to  remain  here  and  nurse  my  head  for  an 
other  twenty-four  hours." 

Philip  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  the  two 
had  little  to  say  as  they  ate  their  dinners. 
After  an  hour's  rest  he  prepared  a  light  pack 
and  took  up  the  doctor's  trail.  Inwardly  he 
rankled  at  the  unusual  hand  which  the  little 
professor  was  playing  in  leaving  Pierre's  cabin 
with  the  prisoners,  and  yet  he  was  confident 
*hat  McGill  would  wait  for  him.  Mile  after 
246 


WHAT  CAME  OF  THE  EXPERIMENT 

mile  he  traveled  down  the  creek.  At  dusk  there 
was  no  sign  of  his  new  friend.  Just  before 
dark  he  climbed  a  dead  stub  at  the  summit  of 
a  high  ridge  and  half  a  dozen  miles  of  the  un 
broken  barren  stretched  out  before  his  eyes. 
At  six  o'clock  he  stopped  to  cook  some  tea  and 
warm  his  meat  and  bannock.  After  that  he 
traveled  until  ten,  then  built  a  big  fire  and  gave 
up  the  pursuit  until  morning.  At  dawn  he 
started  again,  and  not  until  the  forenoon  was 
half  gone  did  he  find  where  the  doctor  had 
stopped  to  camp. 

The  ashes  of  his  fire  were  still  warm  beneath 
and  the  snow  was  trampled  hard  around  them. 
In  the  north  the  clouds  were  piling  up,  betoken 
ing  a  storm  such  as  it  was  not  well  for  a  man 
in  Philip's  condition  of  fatigue  to  face.  Al 
ready  some  flavor  of  the  approaching  blizzard 
was  carried  to  him  on  the  wind. 

So  he  hurried  on.  Fortunately  the  storm 
died  away  after  an  hour  or  two  of  fierce  wind. 
Still  he  did  not  come  up  with  McGill,  and  he 
247 


PHILIP    STEELE 

camped  again  for  the  night,  cursing  the  little 
professor  who  was  racing  on  ahead  of  him. 

It  was  noon  of  the  following  day  when  he 
came  in  sight  of  the  few  log  cabins  at  Fort 
Smith,  situated  in  a  treeless  and  snow-smoth 
ered  sweep  of  the  plain  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Slave.  He  crossed  the  river  and  hurried 
past  the  row  of  buildings  that  led  to  post  head 
quarters.  In  front  of  the  company  office  were 
gathered  a  little  crowd  of  men,  women  and 
children.  He  pushed  his  way  through  and 
stopped  at  the  bottom  of  the  three  log  steps 
which  led  up  to  the  door. 

At  the  top  was  Professor  McGill,  coming  out. 
His  face  was  a  puzzle.  His  eyes  had  in  them 
a  stony  stare  as  he  gazed  down  at  Philip.  Then 
he  descended  slowly,  like  one  moving  in  a 
dream. 

"Good  Heavens,"  he  said  huskily,  and  only 
for  Philip's  ear*;,  "do  you  know  what  I've 
Phil?" 

"What?"  demanded  Philip. 
248 


WHAT  CAME  OF  THE  EXPERIMENT 

The  doctor  came  down  to  the  last  step. 

"Phil,"  he  whispered,  "that  fellow  we  found 
with  a  broken  head  played  a  nice  game  on  me. 
He  was  a  criminal,  and  I've  brought  back  to 
Fort  Smith  no  less  person  than  the  man  sent 
out  to  arrest  him,  Corporal  Dobson,  of  the 
Mounted  Police,  and  his  driver,  Francois 
Something-or-Other.  Heavens,  ain't  it  funny?" 

That  same  afternoon  Corporal  Dobson  and 
the  half-breed  set  out  again  in  quest  of  Falk- 
ner,  and  this  time  they  were  accompanied  by 
Pierre  Thoreau,  who  learned  for  the  first  time 
what  had  happened  in  his  cabin.  The  doctor 
disappeared  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  but  early 
the  next  morning  he  hunted  Phil  up  and  took 
him  to  a  cabin  half  a  mile  down  the  river.  A 
team  of  powerful  dogs,  an  unusually  large 
sledge,  and  two  Indians  were  at  the  door. 

"I  bought  'em  last  night,"  explained  the  doc 
tor,  "and  we're  going  to  leave  for  the  south 
to-day." 

249 


PHILIP    STEELE 

"Giving  up  your  hunt  ?"  asked  Philip. 

"No,  it's  ended,"  replied  McGill  in  a  matter- 
of-fact  way.  "It  ended  at  Pierre  Thoreau's 
:abin.  Falkner  was  the  third  man  to  work  out 
my  experiment." 

Philip  stopped  in  his  tracks,  and  the  doctor 
stopped,  and  turned  toward  him. 

"But  the  third—"  Philip  began. 

The  little  doctor  continued  to  smile. 

"There  are  more  things  in  Heaven  and  earth, 
Philip,"  he  quoted,  "than  are  dreamed  of  in 
your  philosophy.  This  love  experiment  has 
turned  out  wrongly,  as  far  as  preconceived 
theories  are  concerned,  but  when  I  think  of  the 
broader,  deeper  significance  of  it  all  I  am — 
pleased  is  not  the  word." 

"What  I  can't  see — "  Philip  was  stopped 
by  the  doctor's  lifted  hand. 

"You  see,  I  am  relying  on  your  word  of 

honor,  Phil,"  he  explained,  laughing  softly  at 

the  amazement  which  he  saw  in  the  other's 

face.     "It's  all  so  wonderful  that  I  want  you 

250 


WHAT  CAME  OF  THE  EXPERIMENT 

to  know  the  end  of  it,  and  how  happily  it  has 
turned  out  for  me — and  the  little  woman  wait 
ing  for  me  back  home.  It  was  I  and  not  Falk- 
ner  who  cried  out  just  before  you  turned  the 
lamp-wick  down.  A  letter  had  fallen  from  his 
coat  pocket,  and  it  was  one  of  my  letters — sent 
through  my  agent.  Understand?  I  sent  you 
for  the  ice,  and  while  you  were  gone  I  told  him 
who  I  was,  and  he  told  me  why  I  had  never 
heard  from  him,  and  why  he  was  in  Pierre 
Thoreau's  cabin.  My  agent  had  sent  him  north 
with  five  hundred  dollars  as  a  first  payment. 
To  cut  a  long  story  short,  he  got  into  a  card 
game  in  Prince  Albert — as  the  best  of  us  do 
at  times — and  as  a  result  become  mixed  up  in 
a  quarrel,  in  which  he  pretty  nearly  killed  a 
man.  They've  been  after  him  ever  since,  and 
almost  had  him  when  we  found  him,  injured  by 
a  blow  which  he  received  in  an  ugly  fall  earlier 
in  the  night.  It's  the  last  and  total  wrecking 
of  my  theory." 

"But  the  girl—"  urged  Philip.) 

251 


PHILIP   STEELE 

"We're  going  to  see  her  now,  and  she  will 
tell  you  the  whole  story  as  she  told  it  to  me," 
said  the  doctor,  as  calmly  as  before.  "Ah,  but 
it's  wonderful,  man — this  great,  big,  human 
love  that  fills  the  world !  They  two  met  at  Nel 
son  House,  as  I  had  planned  they  should,  and 
four  months  after  that  they  smashed  my  theory 
by  being  married  by  a  missionary  from  York 
Factory.  I  mean  that  they  smashed  the  bad 
part  of  it,  Phil,  but  all  three  couples  proved  the 
other — that  there  exist  no  such  things  as  'soul 
affinities,'  and  that  two  normal  people  of  oppo 
site  sexes,  if  thrown  together  under  certain 
environment,  will  as  naturally  mate  as  two 
birds,  and  will  fight  and  die  for  one  an 
other  afterward,  too.  There  may  not  be  one 
in  ten  thousand  who  believes  it,  but  I  do — 
still.  At  the  last  moment  the  man  in  Falkner 
triumphed  over  his  love  and  he  told  her  what 
he  was,  that  up  until  the  moment  he  met  her  he 
drank  and  gambled,  and  that  for  his  shooting 
a  man  in  Prince  Albert  he  would  sooner  or 
252 


WHAT  CAME  OF  THE  EXPERIMENT 

later  get  a  term  in  prison.  And  she?  I  tell 
you  that  she  busted  my  theory  to  a  frazzle! 
She  loved  him,  as  I  now  believe  every  woman  in 
the  world  is  capable  of  loving,  and  she  married 
him,  and  stuck  to  him  through  thick  and  thin, 
fled  with  him  when  he  was  compelled  to  run — 
and  her  faith  in  him  now  is  like  that  of  a  child 
in  its  God.  For  a  time  they  lived  in  that  cabin 
above  Pierre  Thoreau's,  and  perhaps  they 
wouldn't  have  been  found  out  if  they  hadn't 
come  up  to  Fort  Smith  for  a  holiday.  Falkner 
told  me  that  his  pursuers  would  surely  stop  at 
Pierre's,  and  so  we  fixed  up  that  little  scheme 
to  get  rid  of  you  so  that  you  would  in  no  way 
be  to  blame  for  what  happened.  He  told  me 
where  I'd  find  his  wife.  By  this  time  he  has  a 
good  start  for  the  States,  and  will  be  there  by 
the  time  I  get  his  wife  down." 

Philip  had  not  spoken  a  word.  Almost  me 
chanically  he  pulled  the  photograph  from  his 
pocket. 

"And  this — "  he  said. 

25? 


PHILIP    STEELE 

The  doctor  laughed  as  he  took  the  picture 
from  his  hand. 

"Is  Mrs.  William  Falkner,  Phil.  Come  in. 
Cm  anxious  to  have  you  meet  her." 


254 


CHAPTER  XV 

PHILIP'S  LAST  ASSIGNMENT 

PHILIP,  instead  of  following  the  doctor, 
laid  a  detaining  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"Wait!"  he  said. 

Something  in  the  seriousness  of  his  manner 
drew  a  quick  look  of  apprehension  over  the 
other's  face. 

"I  want  to  talk  with  you,"  continued  Philip. 
"Let  us  walk  a  little  way  down  the  trail." 

The  doctor  eyed  him  suspiciously  as  they 
turned  away  from  the  cabin. 

"See  here,  Phil  Steele,"  he  said,  and  there 
was  a  hard  ring  in  his  voice,  "I've  had  all  sorts 
of  confidence  in  you,  and  I've  told  you  more, 
perhaps,  than  I  ought.  I  don't  suppose  you 
have  a  suspicion  that  you  ought  to  break  it  ?" 

"No,  it  isn't  that,"  replied  Philip,  laughing 
255 


PHILIP    STEELE 

a  little  uneasily.  "I'm  glad  you  got  away  with 
Falkner,  and  so  far  as  I  am  concerned  no  one 
will  ever  know  what  has  happened.  It's  I  who 
want  to  place  a  little  confidence  in  you  now.  I 
am  positively  at  my  wits'  end,  and  all  over  a 
situation  which  seems  to  place  you  and  me  in  a 
class  by  ourselves — sort  of  brothers  in  trouble, 
you  know,"  and  he  told  McGill,  briefly,  of  Iso- 
bel,  and  his  search  for  her. 

"I  lost  them  between  Lac  Bain  and  Fort 
Churchill,"  he  finished.  "The  two  sledges  sep 
arated,  one  continuing  to  Churchill,  and  the 
other  turning  into  the  South.  I  followed  the 
Churchill  sledge — and  was  wrong.  When  I 
came  back  the  snow  had  covered  the  other 
trail." 

The  little  professor  stopped  suddenly  and 
squared  himself  directly  in  Philip's  path. 

"You  don't  say!"  he  gasped.  There  was  a 
look  of  amazement  on  his  face. 

"What  a  wonderfully  little  world  this  is, 
Phil,"  he  added,  smiling  in  a  curious  way. 
256 


PHILIP'S   LAST   ASSIGNMENT 

"What  a  wonderfully,  wonderfully  little  world 
it  is !  It's  only  a  playground,  after  all,  and  the 
funny  part  of  it  is  that  it  is  not  even  large 
enough  to  play  a  game  of  hide-and-seek  in, 
successfully.  I've  proved  that  beyond  question. 
And  here — you — " 

"What?"  demanded  Philip,  puzzled  by  the 
other's  attitude. 

"Well,  you  see,  I  went  first  to  Nelson 
House,"  said  McGill,  "and  from  there  up  to  the 
Hudson's  Bay  Company's  post  in  the  Cochrane 
River,  hunting  for  Falkner  and  this  girl — a 
man  and  a  woman.  And  at  the  Cochrane  Post 
a  Frenchman  told  me  that  there  was  a  strange 
man  and  woman  up  at  Lac  Bain,  and  I  set  off 
for  there.  That  must  have  been  just  about  the 
time  you  were  starting  for  Churchill,  for  on 
the  third  day  up  I  met  a  sledge  that  turned  me 
off  the  Lac  Bain  trail  to  take  up  the  nearer  trail 
to  Chippewayan.  With  this  sledge  were  the 
two  who  had  been  at  Lac  Bain,  Colonel  Becker 
and  his  daughter." 

257 


PHILIP    STEELE 

For  a  moment  Philip  could  not  speak.  He 
caught  the  other's  hand  excitedly. 

"You — you  found  where  they  were  going?" 
he  asked,  when  McGill  did  not  continue. 

"Yes.    We  ate  dinner  together,  and  the  colo 
nel  said  they  were  bound  for  Nelson  House, 
and  that  they  would  probably  go  from  there 
to  Winnipeg.     I  didn't  ask  which  way  they 
would  go." 

"From  Nelson  House  it  would  be  by  the 
Saskatchewan  and  Le  Pas  trail,"  cried  Philip. 
He  was  looking  straight  over  the  little  doctor's 
head.  "If  it  wasn't  for  this  damnable  DeBar 
— whom  I  ought  to  go  after  again — " 

"Drop  DeBar,"  interrupted  McGill  quietly. 
"He's  got  too  big  a  start  of  you  anyway — 
so  what's  the  use?  Drop  'im.  I  dropped  a 
whole  lot  of  things  when  I  came  up  here." 

"But  the  law—" 

"Damn  the  law !"  exploded  the  doctor  with 
unexpected  vehemence.     "Sometimes  I  think 
the  world  would  be  just  as  happy  without  it" 
2*8 


PHILIP'S    LAST   ASSIGNMENT 

Their  eyes  met,  sharp  and  understanding. 

"You're  a  professor  in  a  college,"  chuckled 
Philip,  his  voice  trembling  again  with  hope  and 
eagerness.  "You  ought  to  know  more  than 
I  do.  What  would  you  do  if  you  were  in  my 
place?" 

"I'd  hustle  for  a  pair  of  wings  and  fly,"  re 
plied  the  little  professor  promptly.  "Good 
Lord,  Phil — if  it  was  my  wife — and  I  hadn't 
got  her  yet — I  wouldn't  let  up  until  I'd  chased 
her  from  one  end  of  the  earth  to  the  other. 
What's  a  little  matter  of  duty  compared  to  that 
girl  hustling  toward  Winnipeg?  Next  to  my 
own  little  girl  at  home  she's  the  prettiest  thing 
I  ever  laid  my  eyes  on." 

Philip  laughed  aloud. 

"Thanks,  McGill.  By  Heaven,  I'll  go !  When 
do  you  start?" 

"The  dogs  are  ready,  and  so  is  Mrs.  William 
Falkner." 

Philip  turned  about  quickly. 

"I'll  go  over  and  say  good-by  to  the  detach- 

259 


PHILIP    STEELE 

ment,  and  get  my  pack,"  he  said  over  his  shoul 
der.    "I'll  be  back  inside  of  half  an  hour." 

It  was  a  slow  trip  down.  The  snow  was  be 
ginning  to  soften  in  the  warmth  of  the  first 
spring  suns  by  the  time  they  arrived  at  Lac 
la  Crosse.  Two  days  before  they  reached  the 
post  at  Montreal  Lake,  Philip  began  to  feel  the 
first  discomfort  of  a  strange  sickness,  of  which 
he  said  nothing.  But  the  sharp  eyes  of  the  doc 
tor  detected  that  something  was  wrong,  and 
before  they  came  to  Montreal  House  he  rec 
ognized  the  fever  that  had  begun  to  burn  in 
Philip's  body. 

"You've  set  too  fast  a  pace,"  he  told  him 
"It's  that — and  the  blow  you  got  when  DeBar 
threw  you  against  the  rock.  You'll  have  to  lay 
up  fora  spell." 

In  spite  of  his  protestations,  the  doctor  com 
pelled  him  to  go  to  bed  when  they  arrived  at 
the  post.    He  grew  rapidly  worse,  and  for  five 
weeks  the  doctor  and  Falkner's  wife  nursed 
260 


PHILIP'S   LAST   ASSIGNMENT 

him  through  the  fever.  When  they  left  for  the 
South,  late  in  May,  he  was  still  too  weak  to 
travel,  and  it  was  a  month  later  before  he  pre* 
sented  himself,  pale  and  haggard,  before  In 
spector  MacGregor  at  Prince  Albert.  Again 
disappointment  was  awaiting  him.  There  had 
been  delay  in  purchasing  his  discharge,  and  he 
found  that  he  would  have  to  wait  until  August. 
MacGregor  gave  him  a  three  weeks'  furlough, 
and  his  first  move  was  to  go  up  to  Etomami  and 
Le  Pas.  Colonel  Becker  and  Isobel  had  been 
at  those  places  six  weeks  before.  He  could  find 
no  trace  of  their  having  stopped  at  Prince  Al 
bert.  He  ran  down  to  Winnipeg  and  spent  sev 
eral  days  in  making  inquiries  which  proved  the 
hopelessness  of  any  longer  expecting  to  find 
Isobel  in  Canada.  He  assured  himself  that  by 
this  time  they  were  probably  in  London  and  he 
made  his  plans  accordingly.  His  discharge 
would  come  to  him  by  the  tenth  of  August,  and 
he  would  immediately  set  off  for  England. 
Upon  his  return  to  Prince  Albert  he  was  de- 
261 


PHILIP    STEELE 

tailed  to  a  big  prairie  stretch  of  country  where 
there  was  little  to  do  but  wait.  On  the  first  day 
.?£  August  he  was  at  Hymers  when  the  Limited 
plunged  down  the  embankment  into  Blind  In- 
dian  River.  The  first  word  of  it  came  over  the 
wire  from  Bleak  House  Station  a  little  before 
midnight,  while  he  and  the  agent  were  playing 
cribbage.  Pink-cheeked  little  Gunn,  agent,  oper 
ator,  and  one-third  of  the  total  population  of 
Hymers,  had  lifted  a  peg  to  make  a  count  when 
his  hand  stopped  in  mid-air,  and  with  a  gasp 
ing  break  in  his  voice  he  sprang  to  his  feet. 

The  instrument  on  the  little  table  near  the 
window  was  clicking  frantically.  It  was  Bill- 
inger,  at  Bleak  House,  crying  out  for  head 
quarters,  clear  lines,  the  right  of  way.  The 
Transcontinental — engine,  tender,  baggage  car, 
two  coaches  and  a  sleeper,  had  gone  to  the 
devil.  Those,  in  his  excitement,  where  his  first 
words.  From  fifty  to  a  hundred  were  dead. 
Gunn  almost  swore  Billinger's  next  words  to 
the  line.  It  was  not  an  accident !  Human  hands 
262 


PHILIP'S    LAST   ASSIGNMENT 

had  torn  up  three  sections  of  rail.  The  same 
human  hands  had  rolled  a  two-ton  boulder  in 
the  right  of  way.  He  did  not  know  whether  the 
express  car — or  what  little  remained  of  it—- 
had  been  robbed  or  not. 

From  midnight  until  two  o'clock  the  lines 
were  hot.  A  wrecking  train  was  on  its  way 
from  the  east,  another  from  division  head 
quarters  to  the  west.  Ceaselessly  headquarters 
demanded  new  information,  and  bit  by  bit  the 
terrible  tragedy  was  told  even  as  the  men  and 
women  in  it  died  and  the  few  souls  from  the 
prairies  around  Bleak  House  Station  fought  to 
save  lives.  Then  a  new  word  crept  in  on  the 
wires.  It  called  for  Philip  Steele  at  Hymers. 
It  commanded  him  in  the  name  of  Inspector 
MacGregor  of  the  Royal  Mounted  to  reach 
Bleak  House  Station  without  delay.  What  he 
was  to  do  when  he  arrived  at  the  scene  of  the 
wreck  was  left  to  his  own  judgment. 

The  wire  from  MacGregor  aroused  Philip 
from  the  stupor  of  horror  into  which  he  had 
263 


PHILIP    STEELE 

fallen.  Gunn's  girlish  face  was  as  white  as  a 
sheet. 

"I've  got  a  jigger,"  he  said,  "and  you  can 
take  it.  It's  forty  miles  to  Bleak  House  and 
you  can  make  it  in  three  hours.  There  won't 
be  a  train  for  six." 

Philip  scribbled  a  few  words  for  MacGregor 
and  shoved  them  into  Gunn's  nervous  hand. 
While  the  operator  was  sending  them  off  he 
rolled  a  cigarette,  lighted  it,  and  buckled  on 
his  revolver  belt.  Then  Gunn  hurried  him 
through  the  door  and  they  lifted  the  velocipede 
on  the  track. 

"Wire  Billinger  I'm  coming,"  called  back 
Philip  as  Gunn  started  him  off  with  a  running 
shove. 


264 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A  LOCK  OF  GOLDEN  HAIR 

A 5  the  sun  was  rising  in  a  burning  August 
glare  over  the  edge  of  the  parched 
prairie,  Philip  saw  ahead  of  him  the  unpainted 
board  shanty  that  was  called  Bleak  House  Sta 
tion,  and  a  few  moments  later  he  saw  a  man 
run  out  into  the  middle  of  the  track  and  stare 
down  at  him  from  under  the  shade  of  his 
hands.  It  was  Billinger,  his  English-red  face 
as  white  as  he  had  left  Gunn's,  his  shirt  in  rags, 
arms  bare,  and  his  tremendous  blond  mus- 
taches  crisped  and  seared  by  fire.  Close  to  the 
station,  fastened  to  posts,  were  two  saddle- 
horses.  A  mile  beyond  these  things  a  thin  film 
of  smoke  clouded  the  sky. 

As  the  jigger  stopped  Philip  jumped  from 
his  seat  and  held  out  a  blistered  hand.     'Tip 
265 


PHILIP    STEELE 

Steele — Philip  Steele,  of  the  Northwest 
Mounted." 

"And  I'm  Billinger — agent,"  said  the  other. 
Philip  noticed  that  the  hand  that  gripped  his 
own  was  raw  and  bleeding.  "I  got  your  word, 
and  I've  received  instructions  from  the  depart 
ment  to  place  myself  at  your  service.  My  wife 
is  at  the  key.  I've  found  the  trail,  and  I've 
got  two  horses.  But  there  isn't  another  man 
who'll  leave  up  there  for  love  o'  God  or  money. 
It's  horrible !  Two  hours  ago  you'd  'ave  heard 
their  screams  from  where  you're  standing — the 
hurt,  I  mean.  They  won't  leave  the  wreck — 
not  a  man,  and  I  don't  blame  'em." 

A  pretty,  brown-haired  young  woman  had 
come  to  the  door  and  Billinger  ran  to  her. 
"Good-by,"  he  cried,  taking  her  for  a  moment 
in  his  big  arms.  "Take  care  of  the  key !"  He 
turned  as  quickly  to  the  horses,  talking  as  they 
mounted.  "It  was  robbery,"  he  said — and  they 
set  off  at  a  canter,  side  by  side.  "There  was 
two  hundred  thousand  in  currency  in  the  ex- 
266 


A   LOCK   OF   GOLDEN    HAIR 

press  car,  and  it's  gone.  I  found  their  trail  this 
morning,  going  into  the  North.  They're  hitting 
for  what  we  call  the  Bad  Lands  over  beyond 
the  Coyote,  twenty  miles  from  here.  I  don't 
suppose  there's  any  time  to  lose — " 

"No,"  said  Philip.    "How  many  are  there  T' 

"Four — mebby  more." 

Billinger  started  his  horse  into  a  gallop  and 
Philip  purposely  held  his  mount  behind  to  look 
at  the  other  man.  The  first  law  of  MacGreg- 
or's  teaching  was  to  study  men,  and  to  suspect. 
It  was  the  first  law  of  the  splendid  service  of 
which  he  was  a  part — and  so  he  looked  hard  at 
Billinger.  The  Englishman  was  hatless.  His 
sandy  hair  was  cropped  short,  and  his  mus 
taches  floated  out  like  flexible  horns  from  the 
sides  of  his  face.  His  shirt  was  in  tatters.  In 
one  place  it  was  ripped  clean  of  the  shouldei 
and  Philip  saw  a  purplish  bruise  where  the 
flesh  was  bare.  He  knew  these  for  the  marks 
of  Billinger's  presence  at  the  wreck.  Now  the 
man  was  equipped  for  other  business.  A  huge 
267 


PHILIP    STEELE 

"forty-four"  hung  at  his  waist,  a  short  carbine 
swung  at  his  saddle-bow ;  and  there  was  some 
thing  in  the  manner  of  his  riding,  in  the  hunch 
of  his  shoulders,  and  in  the  vicious  sweep  of 
his  long  mustaches,  that  satisfied  Philip  he  was 
a  man  who  could  use  them.  He  rode  up  along 
side  of  him  with  a  new  confidence.  They  were 
coming  to  the  top  of  a  knoll;  at  the  summit 
Billinger  stopped  and  pointed  down  into  a  hol 
low  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away. 

"It  will  be  a  loss  of  time  to  go  down  there," 
he  said,  "and  it  will  do  no  good.  See  that  thing 
that  looks  like  a  big  log  in  the  river?  That's 
the  top  of  the  day  coach.  It  went  in  right  side 
up,  and  the  conductor — who  wasn't  hurt — says 
there  were  twenty  people  in  it.  We  watched  it 
settle  from  the  shore,  and  we  coaldn't  do  a 
thing — while  they  were  dying  in  there  like  so 
many  caged  rats !  The  other  coach  burned,  and 
that  heap  of  stuff  you  see  there  is  what's  left  of 
the  Pullman  and  the  baggage  car.  There's 
twenty-seven  dead  stretched  out  along  the 
268 


A   LOCK   OF   GOLDEN    HAIR 

track,  and  a  good  many  hurt.  Great  Heavens, 
listen  to  that !" 

He  shuddered,  and  Philip  shuddered,  at  the 
wailing  sound  of  grief  and  pain  that  came  up 
to  them. 

"It'll  be  a  loss  of  time — to  go  down,"  re 
peated  the  agent. 

"Yes,  it  would  be  a  loss  of  time,"  agreed 
Philip. 

His  blood  was  burning  at  fever  heat  when  he 
raised  his  eyes  from  the  scene  below  to  Billin- 
ger's  face.  Every  righting  fiber  in  his  body  was 
tingling  for  action,  and  at  the  responsive  glare 
which  he  met  in  Billinger's  eyes  he  thrust  his 
hand  half  over  the  space  that  separated  them. 

"We'll  get  'em,  Billinger,"  he  cried.  "By 
God,  we'll  get  'em!" 

There  was  something  ferocious  in  the  crush 
of  the  other's  hand.  The  Englishman's  teeth 
gleamed  for  an  instant  between  his  seared  mus1 
taches  as  he  heeled  his  mount  into  a  canter 
along  the  back  of  the  ridge.  Five  minutes  later 
269 


PHILIP    STEELE 

the  knoll  dipped  again  into  the  plain  and  at  the 
foot  of  it  Billinger  stopped  his  horse  for  a  sec 
ond  and  pointed  to  fresh  hoof-marks  in  the 
prairie  sod.  Philip  jumped  from  his  horse  and 
examined  the  ground. 

"There  are  five  in  the  gang,  Billinger,"  he 
said  shortly.  "All  of  them  were  galloping — • 
but  one."  He  looked  up  to  catch  Billinger  lean 
ing  over  the  pommel  of  his  saddle  staring  at 
something  almost  directly  under  his  horse's 
feet. 

"What's  that?"  he  demanded.  -*A  hand 
kerchief?" 

Philip  picked  it  up — a  dainty  bit  of  fine  linen, 
crumpled  and  sodden  by  dew,  and  held  it  out 
between  the  forefinger  and  thumb  of  both 
hands. 

"Yes,  and  a  woman's  handkerchief.  Now 
*rhat  the  devil — " 

He  stopped  at  the  look  in  Billinger's  face  as 
he  reached  down  for  the  handkerchief.  The 
square  jaws  of  the  man  were  set  like  steel 
270 


A   LOCK   OF   GOLDEN   HAIR 

springs,  but  Philip  noticed  that  his  hand  wa? 
trembling. 

"A  woman  in  the  gang,"  he  laughed  as 
Philip  mounted. 

They  started  out  at  a  canter,  Billinger  still 
holding  the  bit  of  linen  close  under  his  eyes. 
After  a  little  he  passed  it  back  to  Philip  who 
was  riding  close  beside  him. 

"Something  happened  last  night,"  he  said, 
looking  straight  ahead  of  him,  "that  I  can't 
understand.  I  didn't  tell  my  wife.  I  haven't 
told  any  one.  But  I  guess  you  ought  to  know. 
It's  interesting,  anyway — and  has  made  a 
wreck  of  my  nerves."  He  wiped  his  face  with 
a  blackened  rag  which  he  drew  from  his  hip 
pocket.  "We  were  working  hard  to  get  out  the 
living,  leaving  the  dead  where  they  were  for  a 
time,  and  I  had  crawled  under  the  wreck  of  the 
sleeper.  I  was  sure  that  I  had  heard  a  cry,  and 
jrawled  in  among  the  debris,  shoving  a  lantern 
ahead  of  me.  About  where  Berth  Number  Ten 
should  have  been,  the  timbers  had  telescoped 
271 


PHILIP   STEELE 

upward,  leaving  an  open  space  four  or  five  feet 
high.  I  was  on  my  hands  and  knees,  bare 
headed,  and  my  lantern  lighted  up  things  a? 
plain  as  day.  At  first  I  saw  nothing,  and  war 
listening  again  for  the  cry  when  I  felt  some 
thing  soft  and  light  sweeping  down  over  me, 
and  I  looked  up.  Heavens — " 

Billinger  was  mopping  his  face  again,  leaving 
streaks  of  char-black  where  the  perspiration 
had  started. 

"Pinned  up  there  in  the  mass  of  twisted  steel 
and  broken  wood  was  a  woman,"  he  went  on. 
"She  was  the  most  beautiful  thing  I  have  ever 
looked  upon.  Her  arms  were  reaching  down  to 
me ;  her  face  was  turned  a  little  to  one  side,  but 
still  looking  at  me — and  all  but  her  face  and 
part  of  her  arms  was  smothered  in  a  mass  of 
red-gold  hair  that  fell  down  to  my  shoulders.  I 
could  have  sworn  that  she  was  alive.  Her  lip? 
were  red,  and  I  thought  for  a  moment  that  she. 
was  going  to  speak  to  me.  I  could  have  sworn, 
too,  that  there  was  color  in  her  face,  but  it  must 
272 


A   LOCK   OF   GOLDEN    HAIR 

have  been  something  in  the  lantern  light  and 
the  red-gold  of  her  hair,  for  when  I  spoke,  and 
then  reached  up,  she  was  cold." 

Billinger  shivered  and  urged  his  horse  into  a 
faster  gait. 

"I  went  out  and  helped  with  the  injured  then. 
I  guess  it  must  have  been  two  hours  later  when 
I  returned  to  take  out  her  body.  But  the  place 
where  I  had  seen  her  was  empty.  She  was 
gone.  At  first  I  thought  that  some  of  the 
others  had  carried  her  out,  and  I  looked  among 
the  dead  and  injured.  She  was  not  among 
them.  I  searched  again  when  day  came,  with 
the  same  result.  No  one  has  seen  her.  She  has 
completely  disappeared — and  with  the  excep 
tion  of  my  shanty  there  isn't  a  house  within  ten 
miles  of  here  where  she  could  have  been  taken. 
What  do  you  make  of  it,  Steele?" 

Philip  had  listened  with  tense  interest. 

"Perhaps  you  didn't  return  to  the  right 
place,"  he  suggested.  "Her  body  may  still  be 
in  the  wreck." 

273 


Billinger  glanced  toward  him  with  a  nervous 
laugh. 

"But  it  was  the  right  place,"  he  said.  "Shf 
had  evidently  not  gone  to  bed,  and  was  dressed 
When  I  returned  I  found  a  part  of  her  skirt 
in  the  debris  above.  A  heavy  tress  of  her  hair 
had  caught  around  a  steel  ribbing,  and  it  was 
cut  off!  Some  one  had  been  there  during  my 
absence  and  had  taken  the  body.  I — I'm  al 
most  ready  to  believe  that  I  was  mistaken,  and 
that  she  was  alive.  I  found  nothing  there,  noth 
ing — that  could  prove  her  death. 

"Is  it  possible — "  began  Philip,  holding  out 
the  handkerchief. 

It  was  not  necessary  for  him  to  finish.  Bill 
inger  understood,  and  nodded  his  head. 

"That's  what  I'm  thinking,"  he  said.  "Is 
it  possible?  What  in  God's  name  would  they 
want  of  her,  unless — " 

"Unless  she  was  alive,"  added  Philip.  "Un 
less  one  or  more  of  the  scoundrels  searching  foi 
valuables  in  there  during  the  excitement,  saw 

271 


A   LOCK   OF   GOLDEN    HAIR 

her  and  carried  her  off  with  their  other  booty. 
It's  up  to  us,  Billinger!" 

Billinger  had  reached  inside  his  shirt,  and 
now  he  drew  forth  a  small  paper  parcel. 

"I  don't  know  why — but  I  kept  the  tress  of 
hair,"  he  said.  "See—" 

From  between  his  fingers,  as  he  turned  to 
ward  Philip,  there  streamed  out  a  long  silken 
tress  that  shone  a  marvelous  gold  in  the  sun, 
and  in  that  same  instant  there  fell  from  Philip's 
lips  a  cry  such  as  Billinger  had  not  heard,  even 
from  the  lips  of  the  wounded;  and  before  he 
could  recover  from  his  astonishment,  he  had 
leaned  over  and  snatched  the  golden  tress  from 
him,  and  sat  in  his  saddle  staring  at  it  like  a 
madman. 


275 


CHAPTER    XVII 

THE   GIRL   IN   THE    WRECK 

IN  that  moment  of  terrible  shock — in  the  one 
moment  when  it  seemed  to  him  as  though 
no  other  woman  in  the  world  could  have  worn 
that  golden  tress  of  hair  but  Isobel,  Philip  had 
stopped  his  horse,  and  his  face  had  gone  as 
white  as  death.  With  a  tremendous  effort  he 
recovered  himself,  and  saw  Billinger  staring  at 
him  as  though  the  hot  sun  had  for  an  instant 
blinded  him  of  reason.  But  the  lock  of  hair 
still  rippled  and  shone  before  his  eyes.  Only 
twice  in  his  life  could  he  remember  having  seen 
hair  just  like  this — that  peculiar  reddish  gold 
that  changed  its  lights  with  every  passing  cloud 
He  had  seen  it  on  Isobel,  in  the  firelight  of  the 
camp,  at  Lac  Bain — and  he  had  seen  it  crown 
ing  the  beautiful  head  of  the  girl  back  home, 
276 


THE   GIRL   IN   THE   WRECK 

the  girl  of  the  hyacinth  letter.  He  struggled  to 
calm  himself  under  the  questioning  gaze  of 
Billinger's  eyes.  He  laughed,  wound  the  hair 
carefully  about  his  fingers,  and  put  it  in  his  coat 
pocket. 

"You — you  have  given  me  a  shock,"  he  said, 
straining  to  keep  his  voice  even.  "I'm  glad  you 
had  foresight  enough  to  keep  the  lock  of  hair, 
Billinger.  At  first — I  jumped  to  a  conclusion. 
But  there's  only  one  chance  in  a  hundred  that 
I'm  right.  If  I  should  be  right — I  know  the 
girl.  Do  you  understand — why  it  startled  me  ? 
Now  for  the  chase,  Billinger.  Lead  away!" 

Leaning  low  over  their  saddles  they  galloped 
into  the  North.  For  a  time  the  trail  of  the  five 
outlaws  was  so  distinct  that  they  rode  at  a 
speed  which  lathered  their  horses.  Then  the 
short  prairie  grass,  crisp  and  sun-dried,  gave 
place  to  a  broad  sweep  of  wire  grass  above 
•vhich  the  yellow  backs  of  coyotes  were  visible 
as  now  and  then  they  bobbed  up  in  their  quick, 
short  leaps  to  look  over  the  top  of  it.  In  this 
277 


PHILIP    STEELE 

brown  sea  all  trace  of  the  trail  was  lost  from 
the  saddle  and  both  men  dismounted.  Foot  by 
foot  they  followed  the  faint  signs  ahead  of 
them,  while  over  their  backs  the  sun  rose  higher 
and  began  to  burn  with  the  dry  furnace-like 
heat  that  had  scorched  the  prairies.  So  slow 
was  their  progress  that  after  a  time  Billinger 
straightened  himself  with  a  nervous  curse.  The 
perspiration  was  running  in  dirty  streaks  down 
his  face.  Before  he  had  spoken  Philip  read  the 
fear  that  was  in  his  eyes  and  tried  to  hide  the 
reflection  of  it  in  his  own.  It  was  too  hot  to 
smoke,  but  he  drew  forth  a  case  of  cigarettes 
and  offered  one  to  Billinger.  The  agent  ac 
cepted  one,  and  both  lighted  in  silence,  eying 
each  other  over  their  matches. 

"Won't  do,"  said  Billinger,  spitting  on  his 
match  before  tossing  it  among  the  grass.  "It's 
ten  miles  across  this  wire-dip,  and  we  won't 
make  it  until  night — if  we  make  it  at  all.  I've 
got  an  idea.  You're  a  better  trailer  than  I  am, 
so  you  follow  this  through.  I'll  ride  on  andt 
278 


THE   GIRL   IN   THE   WRECK 

see  if  I  can  pick  up  the  trail  somewhere  in  the 
edge  of  the  clean  prairie.  What  do  you  say?" 

"Good!"  said  Philip.  "I  believe  you  can 
doit." 

Billinger  leaped  into  his  saddle  and  was  off 
at  a  gallop.  Philip  was  almost  eagerly  anxious 
for  this  opportunity,  and  scarcely  had  the  other 
gone  when  he  drew  the  linen  handkerchief  and 
the  crumpled  lock  of  hair  from  his  pocket  and 
held  them  in  his  hand  as  he  looked  after  the 
agent.  Then,  slowly,  he  raised  the  handker 
chief  to  his  face.  For  a  full  minute  he  stood 
with  the  dainty  fabric  pressed  to  his  lips  and 
nose.  Back  there — when  he  had  first  held  the 
handkerchief — he  thought  that  he  imagined. 
But  now  he  was  sure.  Faintly  the  bit  of  soiled 
fabric  breathed  to  him  the  sweet  scent  of  hya 
cinth.  His  eyes  shone  in  an  eager  bloodshot 
glare  as  he  watched  Billinger  disappear  over  a 
roll  in  the  prairie  a  mile  away. 

"Making  a  fool  of  yourself  again,"  he  mut 
tered,  again  winding  the  golden  hair  about  his 
270 


PHILIP    STEELE 

fingers.  "There  are  other  women  in  the  world 
who  use  hyacinth  besides  her.  And  there  are 
other  women  with  red-gold  hair — and  pretty, 
pretty  as  Billinger  says  she  was,  aren't  there?" 

He  laughed,  but  there  was  something  uneasy 
and  unnatural  in  the  laugh.  In  spite  of  his  ef 
forts  to  argue  the  absurdity  of  his  thoughts,  he 
could  feel  that  he  was  trembling  in  every  nerve 
of  his  body.  And  twice — three  times  he  held 
the  handkerchief  to  his  face  before  he  reached 
the  rise  in  the  prairie  over  which  Billinger  had 
disappeared.  The  agent  had  been  gone  an  hour 
when  the  trail  of  the  outlaws  brought  him  to 
the  knoll.  From  the  top  of  it  Philip  looked 
over  the  prairie  to  the  North. 

A  horseman  was  galloping  toward  him.  He 
knew  that  it  was  Billinger,  and  stood  up  in  his 
stirrups  so  that  the  other  would  see  him.  Half 
a  mile  away  the  agent  stopped  and  Philip  could 
see  him  signaling  frantically  with  both  arms, 
Five  minutes  later  Philip  rode  up  to  him. 
Billinger's  horse  was  half -winded,  and  in 
280 


THE   GIRL   IN   THE   WRECK 

Billinger's  face  there  were  tense  lines  of  ex 
citement. 

"There's  some  one  out  on  the  prairie,"  he 
called,  as  Philip  reined  in.  "I  couldn't  makf 
out  a  horse,  but  there's  a  man  in  the  trail  be 
yond  the  second  ridge.  I  believe  they've 
stopped  to  water  their  horses  and  feed  at  a 
little  lake  just  this  side  of  the  rough  country." 

Billinger  had  loosened  his  carbine,  and  was 
examining  the  breech.  He  glanced  anxiously 
at  Philip's  empty  saddle-straps. 

"It'll  be  long-range  shooting,  if  they've  got 
guns,"  he  said.  "Sorry  I  couldn't  find  a  gun 
for  you." 

Philip  drew  one  of  his  two  long-barreled 
service  revolvers  and  set  his  lips  in  a  grim  and 
reassuring  smile  as  he  followed  the  bobbing 
head  of  a  coyote  some  distance  away. 

"We're  not  considered  proficient  in  the  serv 
ice  unless  we  can  make  use  of  these  things  at 
two  hundred  yards,  Billinger,"  he  replied,  re 
placing  the  weapon  in  its  holster.  "If  it's  a 
281 


PHILIP    STEELE 

running  fight  I'd  rather  have  'em  than  a  car 
bine.  If  it  isn't  a  running  fight  we'll  come  in 
close." 

Philip  looked  at  the  agent  as  they  galloped 
jide  by  side  through  the  long  grass,  and  Bil- 
linger  looked  at  him.  In  the  face  of  each  there 
;vas  something  which  gave  the  other  assurance. 
For  the  first  time  it  struck  Philip  that  his  com 
panion  was  something  more  than  an  operator 
at  Bleak  House  Station.  He  was  a  fighter.  He 
was  a  man  of  the  stamp  needed  down  at  Head 
quarters,  and  he  was  bound  to  tell  him  so  be 
fore  this  affair  was  over.  He  was  thinking  of 
it  when  they  came  to  the  second  ridge. 

Five  miles  to  the  north  and  west  loomed  the 
black  line  of  the  Bad  Lands.  To  a  tenderfoot 
they  would  not  have  appeared  to  be  more  than 
i  mile  distant.  Midway  in  the  prairie  between 
there  toiled  a  human  figure.  Even  at  that  dis 
tance  Philip  and  Billinger  could  see  that  it  was 
»noving,  though  with  a  slowness  that  puzzled 
them.  For  several  minutes  they  stood  breath- 
282 


THE   GIRL   IN   THE   WRECK 

ing  their  horses,  their  eyes  glued  on  the  object 
ahead  of  them.  Twice  in  a  space  of  a  hundred 
yards  it  seemed  to  stumble  and  fall.  The  sec 
ond  time  that  it  rose  Philip  knew  that  it  was 
standing  motionless.  Then  it  disappeared 
again.  He  stared  until  the  rolling  heat  waves 
of  the  blistered  prairie  stung  his  eyes.  The  ob 
ject  did  not  rise.  Blinking,  he  looked  at  Bil- 
linger,  and  through  the  sweat  and  grime  of  the 
other's  face  he  saw  the  question  that  was  on  his 
own  lips.  Without  a  word  they  spurred  down 
the  slope,  and  after  a  time  Billinger  swept  to 
the  right  and  Philip  to  the  left,  each  with  his 
eyes  searching  the  low  prairie  grass.  The 
agent  saw  the  thing  first,  still  a  hundred  yards 
to  his  right.  He  was  off  his  horse  when 
Philip  whirled  at  his  shout  and  galloped  across 
to  him. 

"It's  her — the  girl  I  found  in  the  wreck,"  he 
said.     Something  seemed  to  be  choking  him. 
His  neck  muscles  twitched  and  his  long,  lear 
fingers  were  digging  into  his  own  flesh. 
283 


PHILIP    STEELK 

In  an  instant  Philip  was  on  his  feet.  He 
saw  nothing  of  the  girl's  face,  hidden  under 
a  mass  of  hair  in  which  the  sun  burned  like 
golden  fire.  He  saw  nothing  but  the  crumpled, 
lifeless  form,  smothered  under  the  shining 
mass,  and  yet  in  this  moment  he  knew.  With 
a  fierce  cry  he  dropped  upon  his  knees  and 
drew  away  the  girl's  hair  until  her  lovely  face 
lay  revealed  to  him  in  terrible  pallor  and  still 
ness,  and  as  Billinger  stood  there,  tense  and 
staring,  he  caught  that  face  ck>se  to  his  breast, 
and  began  talking  to  it  as  though  he  had  gone 
mad. 

"Isobel— Isobel— Isobel— "  he  moaned.  "My 
God,  my  Isobel — " 

He  had  repeated  the  name  a  hundred  times, 
vvhen  Billinger,  who  began  to  understand,  put 
his  hand  on  Philip's  shoulder  and  gave  him 
his  water  canteen. 

"She's  not  dead,  man,"  he  said,  as  Philip's 
Ted  eyes  glared  up  at  him.  "Here — water." 

"My  God — it's  strange,"  almost  moaned 
284 


THE   GIRL   IN   THE   WRECK 

Philip.  "Billinger — you  understand — she's  go 
ing  to  be  my  wife — if  she  lives — " 

That  was  all  of  the  story  he  told,  but  Bil 
linger  knew  what  those  few  words  meant. 

"She's  going  to  live,"  he  said.  "See — 
there's  color  coming  back  into  her  face — she's 
breathing."  He  bathed  her  face  in  water,  and 
placed  the  canteen  to  her  lips. 

A  moment  later  Philip  bent  down  and  kissed 
her.  "Isobel — my  sweetheart — "  he  whispered. 

"We  must  hurry  with  her  to  the  water  hole," 
said  Billinger,  laying  a  sympathetic  hand  on 
Philip's  shoulder.  "It's  the  sun.  Thank  God, 
nothing  has  happened  to  her,  Steele.  It's  the 
sun — this  terrible  heat — " 

He  almost  pulled  Philip  to  his  feet,  and  when 
he  had  mounted  Billinger  lifted  the  girl  very 
gently  and  gave  her  to  him. 

Then,  with  the  agent  leading  in  the  trail  of 
the  outlaws,  they  set  off  at  a  walk  through  the 
sickening  sun-glare  for  the  water  hole  in  the 
edge  of  the  Bad  Lands. 

285 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   BATTLE  IN   THE   CANYON 

HUNCHED  over,  with  Isobel's  head  shel 
tered  against  his  breast,  Philip  rode  a 
dozen  paces  behind  the  agent.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  sun  had  suddenly  burst  in  molten  fire  upon 
the  back  of  his  neck,  and  for  a  time  it  made 
him  dizzy.  His  bridle  reins  hung  loosely  over 
the  pommel.  He  made  no  effort  to  guide  his 
horse,  which  followed  after  Billinger's. 

It  was  Billinger  who  brought  him  back  to 
himself.  The  agent  waited  for  them,  and 
when  he  swung  over  in  one  stirrup  to  look  at 
the  girl  it  was  the  animal  ferocity  in  his  face, 
and  not  his  words,  that  aroused  Philip. 

"She's  coming  to,"  he  said,  straining  to  keep 
the  tremble  out  of  his  voice.  "I  don't  believe 
.she's  much  hurt.  You  take  this  canteen.  I'm 
going  ahead." 

286 


THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  CANYON 

He  gave  Philip  the  water  and  leaned  over 
again  to  gaze  into  the  girl's  face. 

"I  don't  believe  she's  much  hurt,"  he  re 
peated  in  a  hoarse,  dry  whisper.  "You  can 
leave  her  at  the  water  hole  just  beyond  that 
hill  off  there — and  then  you  can  follow  me." 

Philip  clutched  the  girl  tighter  to  him  as  the 
agent  rode  off.  He  saw  the  first  faint  flush 
returning  into  her  cheeks,  the  reddening  of  her 
lips,  the  gentle  tremor  of  her  silken  lashes,  and 
forgetful  of  all  else  but  her,  he  moaned  her 
name,  cried  out  his  love  for  her,  again  and 
again,  even  as  her  eyes  opened  and  she  stared 
up  into  the  face  of  the  man  who  had  come  to 
her  first  at  Lac  Bain,  and  who  had  fought  for 
her  there.  For  a  breath  or  two  the  wonder  of 
this  thing  that  was  happening  held  her  speech 
less  and  still  lifeless,  though  her  senses  were 
adjusting  themselves  with  lightning  swiftness. 
At  first  Philip  had  not  seen  her  open  eyes,  and 
he  believed  that  she  did  not  hear  the  words  of 
love  he  whispered  in  her  hair.  When  he  raised 
287 


PHILIP    STEELE 

her  face  a  little  from  his  breast  she  was  look 
ing  at  him  with  all  the  sweet  sanity  in  the 
world. 

A  moment  there  was  silence — a  silence  of 
even  the  breath  in  Philip's  body,  the  beating  of 
his  heart.  His  arms  loosened  a  little.  He 
drew  himself  up  rigid,  and  the  girl  lifted  her 
head  a  trifle,  so  that  their  eyes  met  squarely, 
and  a  world  of  question  and  understanding 
passed  between  them  in  an  instant. 

As  swift  as  morning  glow  a  flush  mounted 
into  Isobel's  face,  then  ebbed  as  swiftly,  and 
Philip  cried :  "You  were  hurt — hurt  back  there 
in  the  wreck.  But  you're  safe  now.  The 
train  was  wrecked  by  outlaws.  We  came  out 
after  them,  and  I — I  found  you — back  there  on 
the  prairie.  You're  safe  now." 

His  arms  tightened  about  her  again. 

"You're  all  right  now,"  he  repeated  gently. 

He  was  not  conscious  of  the  sobbing  break  in 

his  voice,  or  of  the  great,  throbbing  love  that 

it  breathed  to  her.     He  tried  to  speak  calmly. 

288 


THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  CANYON 

**\  nerc  s  nothing  wrong — nothing.  The  heat 
made  you  sick.  But  you're  all  right  now — " 

From  beyond  the  hill  there  came  a  sound 
that  made  him  break  off  with  a  sudden,  quick 
breath.  It  was  the  sharp,  stinging  report  of 
Billinger's  carbine !  Once,  twice,  three  times — 
and  then  there  followed  more  distant  shots ! 

"He's  come  up  with  them!"  he  cried.  The 
fury  of  fight,  of  desire  for  vengeance,  blazed 
anew  in  his  face.  There  was  pain  in  the  grip 
of  his  arm  about  the  girl.  "Do  you  feel  strong 
— strong  enough  to  ride  fast?"  he  asked. 
"There's  only  one  man  with  me,  and  there  are 
five  of  them.  It's  murder  to  let  him  fight  it 
alone!" 

"Yes — yes — "  whispered  the  girl,  her  arms 
tightening  round  him.  "Ride  fast — or  put  me 
off.  I  can  follow — " 

It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  heard  her 
voice  since  that  last  evening  up  at  Lac  Bain, 
many  months  before,  and  the  sound  of  it 
thrilled  him. 

289 


PHILIP    STEELE 

"Hold  tight!"  he  breathed. 

Like  the  wind  they  swept  across  the  prairie 
and  up  the  slope  of  the  hill.  At  the  top  Philip 
reined  in.  Three  or  four  hundred  yards  dis 
tant  lay  a  thick  clump  of  poplar  trees  and  a 
thousand  yards  beyond  that  the  first  black  es 
carpments  of  the  Bad  Lands.  In  the  space 
between  a  horseman  was  galloping  fiercely  to 
the  west.  It  was  not  Billinger.  With  a  quick 
movement  Philip  slipped  the  girl  to  the  ground, 
and  when  she  sprang  a  step  back,  looking  up  at 
him  in  white  terror,  he  had  whipped  out  one  of 
his  big  service  revolvers. 

"There's  a  little  lake  over  there  among  those 
trees,"  he  said.  "Wait  there — until  I  come 
back!" 

He  raced  down  the  slope — not  to  cut  off  the 
flying  horseman — but  toward  the  clump  of 
poplars.  It  was  Billinger  he  was  thinking  of 
now.  The  agent  had  fired  three  shots.  There 
had  Allowed  other  shots,  not  Billinger's,  and 
aftej  that  his  carbine  had  remained  silent. 
290 


THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  CANYON 

Billinger  was  among  the  poplars.   He  was  hurt 
or  dead. 

A  well-worn  trail,  beaten  down  by  transient 
rangers,  cut  through  the  stunted  growth  of 
prairie  timber,  and  without  checking  his  speed 
Philip  sped  along  it,  only  his  head  and  shoul 
ders  and  his  big  revolver  showing  over  his 
horse's  ears.  A  hundred  paces  and  the  timber 
gave  place  to  a  sandy  dip,  in  the  center  of 
which  was  the  water  hole.  The  dip  was  not 
more  than  an  acre  in  extent.  Up  to  his  knees 
in  the  hole  was  Billinger's  riderless  horse, 
and  a  little  way  up  the  sand  was  Billinger, 
doubled  over  on  his  hands  and  knees  beside 
two  black  objects  that  Philip  knew  were  men, 
stretched  out  like  the  dead  back  at  the  wreck. 
Billinger's  yellow-mustached  face,  pallid  and 
twisted  with  pain,  looked  over  them  as  Philip 
galloped  across  the  open  and  sprang  out  of  his 
saddle.  With  a  terrible  grimace  he  raised 
himself  to  his  knees,  anticipating  the  question 
on  Philip's  lips. 

291 


PHILIP    STEELE 

"Nothing  very  bad,  Steele,"  he  said.  "One 
of  the  cusses  pinked  me  through  the  leg,  and 
broke  it,  I  guess.  Painful,  but  not  killing 
Now  look  at  that !" 

He  nodded  to  the  two  men  lying  with  their 
faces  turned  up  to  the  hot  glare  of  the  sun. 
One  glance  was  enough  to  tell  Philip  that  they 
were  dead,  and  that  it  was  not  Billinger  who 
had  killed  them.  Their  bearded  faces  had 
stiffened  in  the  first  agonies  of  death.  Their 
breasts  were  soaked  with  blood  and  their  arms 
had  been  drawn  down  close  to  their  sides. 

As  he  looked  the  gleam  of  a  metal  buckle  on 
the  belt  of  the  dead  man  nearest  him,  caught 
Philip's  eye.  He  took  a  step  nearer  to  examine 
it  and  then  drew  back.  This  bit  of  metal  told 
the  story— it  bore  the  letters  R.  N.  W.  M.  P. 

"I  thought  so,"  he  muttered  with  a  slight 
catch  in  his  voice.  "You  didn't  follow  my  good 
advice,  Bucky  Nome,  and  now  you  reap  the 
harvest  of  your  folly.  You  have  paid  your 
debt  to  M'sieur  Janette." 
292 


THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  CANYON 

Then  Philip  turned  quickly  and  looked  back 
at  Billinger.  In  his  hand  the  agent  held  a  pa 
per  package,  which  he  had  torn  open.  A  second 
and  similar  package  lay  in  the  sand  in  front 
of  him. 

"Currency!"  he  gasped.  "It's  a  part  of  the 
money  stolen  from  the  express  car.  The  two 
hundred  thousand  was  done  up  in  five  pack 
ages,  and  here  are  two  of  'em.  Those  men 
were  dead  when  I  came,  and  each  had  a  pack 
age  lying  on  his  breast.  The  fellow  who 
pinked  me  was  just  leaving  the  dip!" 

He  dropped  the  package  and  began  ripping 
down  his  trouser  leg  with  a  knife.  Philip 
dropped  on  his  knees  beside  him,  but  Billinger 
motioned  him  back. 

"It's  not  bleeding  bad,"  he  said.  "I  can  fix 
it  alone." 

"You're  certain,  Billinger — " 

"Sure!"  laughed  the  agent,  though  he  was 
biting  his  lips  until  they  were  flecked  with 
blood.  "There's  no  need  of  you  wasting  time." 
293 


PHILIP    STEELE 

For  a  moment  Philip  clutched  the  other's 
hand. 

"We  can't  understand  what  this  all  means, 
old  man — the  carrying  off  of — of  Isobel — and 
the  money  here,  but  we'll  find  out  soon !" 

"Leave  that  confounded  carbine,"  exclaimed 
Billinger,  as  the  other  rose  to  mount.  "I  did 
rotten  work  with  it,  and  the  other  fellow  fixed 
me  with  a  pistol.  That's  why  I'm  not  bleed 
ing  very  much." 

The  outlaw  had  disappeared  in  the  black 
edge  of  the  Bad  Lands  when  Philip  dashed  up 
out  of  the  dip  into  the  plain.  There  was  only 
one  break  ahead  of  him,  and  toward  this  he 
urged  his  horse.  In  the  entrance  to  the  break 
there  was  another  sandy  but  waterless  dip,  and 
across  this  trailed  the  hoof-prints  of  the  out 
laws'  mounts,  two  at  a  walk — one  at  a  gallop. 
At  one  time,  ages  before,  the  break  had  been 
the  outlet  of  a  stream  pouring  itself  out  be 
tween  jagged  and  cavernous  walls  of  rock  from 
the  black  heart  of  the  upheaved  country  within. 
294 


THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  CANYON 

Now  the  bed  of  it  was  strewn  with  broken  trap 
and  masses  of  boulders,  cracked  and  dried  by 
centuries  of  blistering  sun. 

Philip's  heart  beat  a  little  faster  as  he  urged 
his  horse  ahead,  and  not  for  an  instant  did  his 
cocked  revolver  drop  from  its  guard  over  the 
mare's  ears.  He  knew,  if  he  overtook  the  out 
laws  in  retreat,  that  there  would  be  a  fight,  and 
that  it  would  be  three  against  one.  That  was 
what  he  hoped  for.  It  was  an  ambush  that  he 
dreaded.  He  realized  that  if  the  outlaws 
stopped  and  waited  for  him  he  would  be  at  a 
terrible  disadvantage.  In  open  fight  he  was  con 
fident.  His  prairie-bred  mount  took  the  rough 
trail  at  a  swift  canter,  evading  the  boulders 
and  knife-edged  trap  in  the  same  guarded  man 
ner  that  she  galloped  over  prairie-dog  and 
badger  holes  out  upon  the  plain.  Twice  in 
the  ten  minutes  that  followed  their  entrance 
into  the  chasm  Philip  saw  movement  ahead  of 
him,  and  each  time  his  revolver  leaped  to  it. 
Once  it  was  a  wolf,  again  the  swiftly  movine 
295 


PHILIP    STEELE 

shadow  of  an  eagle  sweeping  with  spread 
wings  between  him  and  the  sun.  He  watched 
every  concealment  as  he  approached  and  half 
swung  in  his  saddle  in  passing,  ready  to  fire. 

A  quick  turn  in  the  creek  bed,  where  the 
rock  walls  hugged  in  close,  and  his  mare 
planted  her  forefeet  with  a  suddenness  that 
nearly  sent  him  over  her  head.  Directly  in 
their  path,  struggling  to  rise  from  among  the 
rocks,  was  a  riderless  horse.  Two  hundred 
yards  beyond  a  man  on  foot  was  running 
swiftly  up  the  chasm,  and  a  pistol  shot  beyond 
him  two  others  on  horseback  had  turned  and 
were  waiting. 

"Lord,  if  I  had  Billinger's  gun  now!" 
groaned  Philip. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  and  the  pressure 
of  his  heels  in  her  flank  the  mare  vaulted  over 
the  animal  in  their  path.  The  clatter  of  pur 
suing  hoofs  stopped  the  runner  for  an  instant, 
and  in  that  same  instant  Philip  halted  and  rose 
in  his  stirrups  to  fire.  As  his  finger  pressed  the 
296 


THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  CANYON 

trigger  there  came  to  his  ears  a  thrilling  sound 
from  behind  him — the  sharp  galloping  beat  of 
steel  upon  rock!  Billinger  was  coming — Bil- 
linger,  with  his  broken  leg  and  his  carbine! 
He  could  have  shouted  for  joy  as  he  fired. 
Once — twice,  and  the  outlaw  was  speeding 
ahead  of  him  again,  unhurt  A  third  shot  and 
the  man  stumbled  among  the  rocks  and  disap 
peared.  There  was  no  movement  toward  re 
treat  on  the  part  of  the  mounted  men,  and 
Philip  listened  as  he  slipped  in  fresh  cartridges, 
His  horse  was  panting;  he  could  hear  the  ex 
cited  and  joyous  tumult  of  his  own  heart — but 
above  it  all  he  heard  the  steady  beat,  beat,  beat 
of  those  approaching  hoofs!  Billinger  would 
be  there  soon — in  time  to  use  his  carbine  at  a 
deadly  rate,  while  he  got  into  closer  quarters 
with  his  revolver.  God  bless  Billinger — and 
his  broken  leg! 

He  was  filled  with  the  craze  of  fight  now 
and  it  found  vent  in  a  yell  of  defiance  as  he 
spurred  on  toward  the  outlaws.     They  were 
297 


PHILIP    STEELE 

not  going  to  run.  They  were  waiting  for  him. 
He  caught  the  gleam  of  the  hot  sun  on  their 
revolvers,  and  saw  that  they  meant  business  as 
they  swung  a  little  apart  to  divide  his  fire.  At 
one  hundred  yards  Philip  still  held  his  gun  af 
his  side;  at  sixty  he  pulled  in  his  mare,  flat 
tened  along  her  neck  like  an  Indian,  his  pistol 
arm  swinging  free  between  her  ears.  It  was 
one  of  the  cleverest  fighting  tricks  of  the  serv 
ice,  and  he  made  the  movement  as  the  guns  of 
the  others  leaped  before  their  faces.  Two 
shots  sang  over  his  head,  so  close  that  they 
would  have  swept  him  from  the  saddle  if  he 
had  been  erect.  In  another  moment  the  rock- 
bound  chasm  echoed  with  the  steady  roar  of 
the  three  revolvers.  In  front  of  the  flaming 
end  of  his  own  gun  Philip  saw  the  outlaw  on 
the  right  pitch  forward  in  his  saddle  and  fall 
to  the  ground.  He  sent  his  last  shot  at  the 
man  on  the  left  and  drew  his  second  gun.  Be 
fore  he  could  fire  again  his  mare  gave  a  tre 
mendous  lunge  forward  and  stumbled  upon 
298 


THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  CANYON 

her  knees,  and  with  a  gasp  of  horror  Philip, 
felt  the  saddle-girth  slip  as  he  swung  to  free 
himself. 

In  the  few  terrible  seconds  that  followed 
Philip  was  conscious  of  two  things — that  death 
was  very  near,  and  that  Billinger  was  a  mo 
ment  too  late.  Less  than  ten  paces  away  the 
outlaw  was  deliberately  taking  aim  at  him, 
while  his  own  pistol  arm  was  pinned  under  the 
weight  of  his  body.  For  a  breath  he  ceased  to 
struggle,  looking  up  in  frozen  calmness  at  the 
man  whose  finger  was  already  crooked  to  fire. 
When  a  shot  suddenly  rang  out,  it  passed 
through  him  in  a  lightning  flash  that  it  was  the 
shot  intended  for  him.  But  he  saw  no  move 
ment  in  the  outlaw's  arm;  no  smoke  from  his 
gun.  For  a  moment  the  man  sat  rigid  and  stiff 
in  his  saddle.  Then  his  arm  dropped.  His 
revolver  fell  with  a  clatter  among  the  stones. 
He  slipped  sidewise  with  a  low  groan  and 
tumbled  limp  and  lifeless  almost  at  Philip's 
feet 

299 


PHILIP    STEELE 

"Billinger— Billinger— " 

The  words  came  in  a  sob  of  joy  from  Philip's 
lips.  Billinger  had  come  in  time — just  in  time! 
He  struggled  so  that  he  could  turn  his  head 
and  look  down  the  chasm.  Yes,  there  was 
Billinger — a  hundred  yards  away,  hunched 
over  his  saddle.  Billinger,  with  his  broken 
leg,  his  magnificent  courage,  his — 

With  a  wild  cry  Philip  jerked  himself  free. 
Good  God,  it  was  not  Billinger!  It  was  Iso- 
bel!  She  had  slipped  from  the  saddle — he  saw 
her  as  she  tottered  a  few  steps  among  the 
rocks  and  then  sank  down  among  them.  With 
his  pistol  still  in  his  hand  he  ran  back  to  where 
Billinger's  horse  was  standing.  The  girl  was 
crumpled  against  the  side  of  a  boulder,  with 
her  head  in  her  arms — and  she  was  crying.  In 
an  instant  he  was  beside  her,  and  all  that  he 
had  ever  dreamed  of,  all  that  he  had  ever  hoped 
for,  burst  from  his  lips  as  he  caught  her  and 
held  her  close  against  his  breast.  Yet  he  never 
could  have  told  what  he  said.  Only  he  knew 
300 


THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  CANYON 

that  her  arms  were  clasped  about  his  neck,  and 
that,  as  she  pressed  her  face  against  him,  she 
sobbed  over  and  over  again  something  about 
the  old  days  at  Lac  Bain — and  that  she  loved 
him,  loved  him!  Then  his  eyes  turned  up  the 
chasm,  and  what  he  saw  there  made  him  bend 
low  behind  the  boulder  and  brought  a  strange 
thrill  into  his  voice. 

"You  will  stay  here — a  little  while,"  he 
whispered,  running  his  fingers  through  her 
shining  hair.  There  was  a  tone  of  gentle  com 
mand  in  his  words  as  he  placed  her  against  the 
rock.  "I  must  go  back  for  a  few  minutes. 
There  is  no  danger — now." 

He  stooped  and  picked  up  the  carbine  which 
had  fallen  from  her  hand.  There  was  one 
cartridge  still  in  the  breech.  Replacing  his  re 
volver  in  its  holster  he  rose  above  the  rocks, 
ready  to  swing  the  rifle  to  his  shoulder.  Up 
where  the  outlaws  lay,  a  man  was  standing  ir 
the  trail.  He  was  making  no  effort  to  conceal 
himself,  and  did  not  see  Philip  until  he  was 
301 


PHILIP    STEELE 

within  fifty  paces  of  him.  Even  then  he  did 
not  show  surprise.  Apparently  he  was  un 
armed,  and  Philip  dropped  the  muzzle  of  his 
carbine.  The  man  motioned  for  him  to  ad 
vance,  standing  with  a  spread  hand  resting  on 
either  hip.  He  was  hatless  and  coatless.  His 
hair  was  long.  His  face  was  covered  with  a 
scraggly  growth  of  red  beard,  too  short  to 
hide  his  sunken  cheeks.  He  might  have  been 
a  man  half  starved,  and  yet  there  was  strength 
in  his  bony  frame  and  his  eyes  were  as  keen  as 
a  serpent's. 

"Got  in  just  in  time  to  miss  the  fun  after 
all,"  he  said  coolly.  "Queer  game,  wasn't  it? 
I  was  ahead  of  you  up  as  far  as  the  water  hole. 
Saw  what  happened  there." 

Philip's  hand  dropped  on  the  butt  of  his  re 
volver. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  asked. 

"Me?  I'm  Blackstone — Jim  Blackstone, 
from  over  beyond  the  elbow.  I  guess  everybody 
for  fifty  miles  round  here  knows  me.  And  I 
302 


THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  CANYON 

guess  I'm  the  only  one  who  knows  what's  hap« 
pened — and  why."  He  had  stepped  behind  a 
huge  rock  that  shut  out  the  lower  trail  from 
them  and  Philip  followed,  his  hand  still  on  his 
revolver.  "They're  both  dead,"  added  the 
stranger,  signifying  with  a  nod  of  his  head  that 
he  meant  the  outlaws.  "One  of  them  was 
alive  when  I  came  up,  but  I  ran  my  knife  be 
tween  his  ribs,  and  he's  dead  now." 

"The  devil!"  cried  Philip,  half  drawing  his 
revolver  at  the  ferocious  leer  in  the  other's 
face. 

"Wait,"  exclaimed  the  man,  "and  see  if  I'm 
not  right.  The  man  who  was  responsible  for 
the  wreck  back  there  is  my  deadliest  enemy — 
has  been  for  years,  and  now  I'm  even  up  with 
him.  And  I  guess  in  the  eyes  of  the  law  I've 
got  the  right  to  it.  What  do  you  say  ?" 

"Go  on,"  said  Philip. 

The  snake-like  eyes  of  the  man  burned  with 
a  dull  flame  and  yet  he  spoke  calmly. 

"He  came  out  here  from  England  four  years 
303 


PHILIP    STEELE 

ago,"  he  went  on.  "He  was  forced  to  come. 
Understand  ?  He  was  such  a  devil  back  among 
his  people — half  a  criminal  even  then — that  he 
was  sent  out  here  on  a  regular  monthly  remit 
tance.  After  that  everything  went  the  way  of 
his  younger  brother.  His  father  married 
again,  and  the  second  year  he  became  even  less 
than  a  remittance  man,  for  his  allowance  was 
cut  off.  He  was  bad — bad  from  the  start,  and 
he  went  from  bad  to  worse  out  here.  He 
gambled,  fought,  robbed,  and  became  the  head 
of  a  gang  of  scoundrels  as  dangerous  as  him 
self.  He  brooded  over  what  he  considered  his 
wrongs  until  he  went  a  little  mad.  He  lived 
only  to  avenge  himself.  At  the  first  opportu 
nity  he  was  prepared  to  kill  his  father  and  his 
step-mother.  Then,  a  few  weeks  ago,  he 
learned  that  these  two  were  coming  to  America 
and  that  on  their  way  to  Vancouver  they  would 
pass  through  Bleak  House  Station.  He  went 
completely  mad  then,  and  planned  to  destroy 
them,  and  rob  the  train.  You  know  how  he 
3°4 


THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  CANYON 

and  his  gang  did  the  job.  After  it  was  over  and 
they  had  got  the  money,  he  let  his  gang  go  on 
ahead  of  him  while  he  went  back  to  the  wreck 
of  the  sleeper.  He  wanted  to  make  sure  that 
they  were  dead.  Do  you  see?" 

"Yes,"  said  Philip  tensely,  "go  on." 
"And  when  he  got  there,"  continued  the 
other,  bowing  his  head  as  he  filled  an  old  briar 
pipe  with  tobacco,  "he  found  some  one  else, 
tt's  strange — and  you  may  wonder  how  I  know 
it  all.  But  it's  true.  Back  in  England  he  had 
worshipped  a  young  girl.  Like  the  others,  she 
detested  him;  and  yet  he  loved  her  and  would 
have  died  for  her.  And  in  the  wreck  of  the 
sleeper  he  found  her  and  her  father — both 
dead.  He  brought  her  out,  and  when  no  one 
was  near  carried  her  through  the  night  to  his 
horse.  The  knowledge  that  he  had  killed  her — 
the  only  creature  in  the  world  that  he  loved — 
brought  him  back  to  sanity.  It  filled  him  with 
a  new  desire  for  vengeance — but  vengeance  of 
another  kind.  To  achieve  this  vengeance  he 
30.5 


PHILIP    STEELE 

was  compelled  to  leave  her  dead  body  miles 
out  on  the  prairie.  Then  he  hurried  to  over 
take  his  comrades.  As  their  leader  he  had 
kept  possession  of  the  money  they  had  taken 
from  the  express  car.  The  division  was  to  be 
made  at  the  water  hole.  The  gang  was  wait 
ing  for  him  there.  The  money  was  divided, 
and  two  of  the  gang  rode  ahead.  The  other 
two  were  to  go  in  another  direction  so  as  to  di 
vide  the  pursuit.  The  remittance  man  remained 
with  them,  and  when  the  others  had  gone  a 
distance  he  killed  them  both.  He  was  sane 
now,  you  understand.  He  had  committed  a 
great  crime  and  he  was  employing  his  own 
method  of  undoing  it.  Then  he  was  going 
back  to  bury — her." 

The  man's  voice  broke.  A  great  sob  shook 
his  frame.  When  he  looked  up,  Philip  hac1 
drawn  his  revolver. 

"And  the  remittance  man — "  he  began. 

"Is  myself — Jim  Blackstone — at  your  serv- 
ice." 

306 


THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  CANYON 

The  man  turned  his  back  to  Philip,  hunched 
over,  as  if  bent  in  grief.  For  a  moment  he 
stood  thus.  There  followed  in  that  same  mo 
ment  the  loud  report  of  a  pistol,  and  when 
Philip  leaped  to  catch  his  tottering  form  the 
glaze  of  death  was  in  the  outlaw's  eyes. 

"I  was  going  to  do  this — back  there — be 
side  her,"  he  gasped  faintly.  A  shiver  ran 
through  him  and  his  head  dropped  limply  for 
ward. 

Philip  laid  him  with  his  face  toward  a  rock 
and  stepped  out  from  his  concealment.  The 
girl  had  heard  the  pistol  shot  and  was  running 
up  the  trail. 

"What  was  that?"  she  asked,  when  he  had 
hurried  to  her. 

"The  last  shot,  sweetheart,"  he  answered 
softly,  catching  her  in  his  arms.  "We're  go 
ing  back  to  Billinger  now,  and  then — home." 

THE  END 


AA      000248545 


3  1158  00490  9544 


